


Reach Out and Touch Faith

by for_autumn_i_am, ktula



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avocado Kylux, Celibacy, Cock Cages, Explicit Consent, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, IN SPACE!, Intercrural Sex, Kylo Amidala, Long-Distance Relationship, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Pining, Power Play, Praise Kink, Pre-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Sex Toys, Sexting, Sexual Fantasy, Size Difference, Size Kink, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virgin Armitage Hux, Virgin Kylo Ren, Webcam/Video Chat Sex, kylo ren's monster cock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2019-09-12 05:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 145,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16866619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula/pseuds/ktula
Summary: New Contacts (1): General A. Hux [Finalizer]Kylo blinks. Sits up, and carefully presses the button. It’s—fuck, it’s a professional holo of him. Full colour, instead of the wavering blue of the hologram unit embedded in Snoke’s throne, and General Hux has—General Hux has red hair, and green-grey eyes, and he’s so focused, so settled. Like he knows what he wants.Like he knows how to get it.





	1. A Singular Echo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to _Reach Out and Touch Faith_ , a collaboration which spawned from a twitter thread in which autumn and ktula got very carried away. 
> 
> Autumn writes the Hux chapters (the first of which goes up next week!), and ktula writes the Kylo chapters (the first of which is below!); the plot has been developed together. 
> 
> Additional tags to be added as the story progresses. _Content warnings_ are in the end notes.

It’s all over his hands. Under his nails. He can smell it.

Blood.

There’s so much blood.

His chest is raw and his throat aches. He’s crammed into a tiny refresher trying not to hyperventilate. He wants to take his clothes off more than anything, he wants to wash. It’s drying now, drying all over his chest, blood and ichor and mud and rain and he wants to scream, he wants to hit something he wants—

There’s so much blood.

(they’re all dead)

—to get the kriff off this transport, because he can feel it shuddering underneath him, can hear the whispers in the Force from everyone around him, and it’s too noisy, it’s too much. He doesn’t want to listen to them, he doesn’t want to listen to any of them, he wants Snoke, he wants his Master, he wants to know what he’s supposed to be doing, what he’s supposed to do now, but he can’t _hear_ him, he hasn’t received any communication from his Master, and he just wants to know—is it time yet?

Is he who he is supposed to be?

(It’s so loud here, but they all sound the same—the same thoughts repeated and multiplied, echoed and echoed and returned back to him, and he is going to go mad with this, he is going to go mad with the lack of this, he cannot feel his Knights through the barricades of _same_ and _same_ and _same_ and _same_ —)

There’s a hollow thud on the door.

“What,” he snarls.

“Seven minutes to docking,” the trooper on the other side says, voice tinny and distorted through the vocoder. “General Hux wishes to speak with you on board the Finalizer.”

“No,” he says, voice cracking. He closes his eyes. He can feel dried blood cracking on his temples. His hair is lank with it.

“General Hux—”

“No,” he repeats. He looks down at himself. His robes are plastered to his body, dark brown and filthy. He feels disgusting, hollow, empty. He doesn’t even—he doesn’t even have a name right now, he doesn’t know who he _is_ , he is supposed to be becoming, but into what? He needs to be cleansed, needs to be renewed, needs to be purified, and right now, he’s not—he’s not who he’s supposed to be, he’s not—he’s not anyone, right now.

He is _between_.

(Is it time? Is he ready?)

He hears the trooper step away from the door. He hears their thoughts, as clearly as if they’d spoken.

_—not my problem, I did what I needed to do—_

He reaches out, one more time. Past everyone on the transport. Past the Finalizer itself, looming in the distance like so much static, static and a flash of ice at its center, and then pushing forward, pushing further out—he refuses to scream out for help, he refuses—

The transport shudders, and he can feel the creak of the landing gear underneath.

He pushes further, the edges of his mind cracking. He can feel himself splitting apart at the edges, fragmenting. Falling apart. He just wants to reach out, he wants to grasp at something, he wants there to be something solid for him to cling to—his master has to be there, he has to be there, he has to be—

_Ah_ , the voice echoes in his skull. _My worthy apprentice. You are on your way to me at least._

He sags back against the sink. _I’m here, Master. I’m here. Make me pure._

_Son of darkness—_

_Kylo,_ he responds, flinging the name out into the stars, broadcasting it so loudly that he can feel the collective shudder from the troopers on the transport. _Kylo Ren!_

_Then come to me_ , _Kylo Ren,_ Snoke says, voice dry and echoing in his mind, and closer than it has ever been before. _Heir apparent._

_I’m on my way_ , Kylo says. _I’m on my way._

*

He’s on the Supremacy now. He has a room there. It has a single bed with a hard mattress and no pillow. There is a private refresher. There are no windows. There is a table with no furniture. There are no dishes. There is a hot plate. Kylo doesn’t know how to use it. He’s never used one before. They always had—even on the Falcon—they always…

There’s a dispenser on the counter. He presses a button, watches slurry drip out of the nozzle into the bottom of the dispenser.

(He hadn’t put a cup underneath it. He didn’t—he didn’t know that there was supposed to be a cup underneath it. The slurry oozes over the bottom of the dispenser onto the counter, starts dripping onto the floor.)

He swipes his finger across the mess, touches it to the tip of his tongue. It tastes awful. It tastes like a protein slurry one of the other stu—it tastes like—

(He’s not that person anymore. He doesn’t know those people anymore. Those people are dead, and he is alive.)

There is a datapad on the table. Kylo sucks his finger clean, grimacing at the taste of it, and touches his other thumb to the datapad to activate it. It boots up, the First Order logo displaying exactly in the center of the screen, pulsing as the datapad starts up, and then fading out to a blank screen.

Kylo frowns. Touches his thumb to the pad, swipes across it with his hand. Tilts it, trying to find an optical sensor.

“Kylo Ren,” he says, to his empty room, and his datapad doesn’t respond. The screen remains black.

After fumbling with it for the better part of twenty minutes, he realizes that there’s a series of small indentations on the back of the datapad, and by holding the datapad and aligning his fingertips to the indentations, he can pull up the login screen, set a password and swipe it open.

It doesn’t much matter once he does.

There’s nothing on it. No contacts, no address book. No ability to reach out to the Holonet. A small icon for to access what appears to be an intranet, but intranet isn’t what Kylo wants. He wants to reach out. He wants contact. He wants his Knights.

(He can’t have them. Not now. He doesn’t deserve them yet. He knows, he _knows_ , and he aches with it.)

Kylo removes one of the blankets from his bed, carefully cuts it into pieces with his saber. He wraps one piece around his neck, drapes another over his head to fashion a hood.

(He cuts a corner off one of the pieces, uses that scrap to clean up the protein slurry. He’s not hungry enough for that. Not yet. The texture of it—lumps and liquid both—makes him want to gag. It reminds him of clotted blood and entrails, the way they stuck to his skin and his clothes and his hair.)

He looks at himself in the mirror of the refresher, tugs the makeshift hood a little further forward to hide his face. He still looks too much like—like Ben. He looks too much like Ben. (He can still smell blood under his fingernails.) He can’t look at himself anymore. He goes back out into the main room, and it’s so _cold_ and his quarters are so isolated that he can’t even hear anyone around him, none of the minds that are running the Supremacy, because everything is too far away—

(It was necessary, wasn’t it? What he did? Letting the Knights go so that he could focus on his own training—it was the right path forward. It has to have been the right path forward.)

He’s crying. He is abysmally lonely, and his data pad connects to no one and nothing. His room is cold and there’s no pillow on his bed. He can’t reach out to his Knights, and it’s too early to reach out to Snoke again, not when Snoke could second-guess this entire arrangement at any time.

Kylo sniffs, wipes his arm across his face. He should be training. He should be training, and then he should stop by the throne room, and he can’t meet with Snoke looking like this.

He’s an adult, now. He killed them all, and he needs to move forward.

It’s long past time.

*

Kylo can’t get warm. Even in the throne room, they’re nowhere near the engines, and he can’t hear anything through the walls. There is nothing but silence. Silence, and the occasional rasp of Snoke’s breathing, though even that is irregular and not in the rhythms which Kylo is used to.

His Knights are not here. He had hoped they would be—but the throne room is cavernous, empty.

His knees ache from kneeling. Snoke looms up on the dais above him, and Kylo kneels, and he breathes, and he waits.

(His hood is pulled forward, hiding his face, and he’s still fucking cold. The hair is standing up on the back of his neck and cold sweat runs down his back. He shifts his weight forward to relieve the pressure from his back knee, which aches from the hard flooring—but his thigh is trembling, and he’ll have to shift his weight back soon. He can still smell blood.

(Since the massacre, since he joined the First Order, he has had four proper showers and six sonics. He has used up his hot water rations for the month and the sonic blinks red lights at him every time he goes into the bathroom. He can still smell blood. His hands are raw from washing them.)

“I expect a certain…purity,” Snoke is saying.

Kylo ducks his head. “Yes, Master.”

“No distractions. I need your focus. I need your dedication.”

“I can do it,” Kylo says. “I am focused. I am pure. I am clean. I am—”

“You’re young,” Snoke says, voice dismissive. “I know what young men are like.”

“I am _not_ like that,” Kylo snarls, standing up and curling his shoulders forward. “I am not—”

Snoke lifts his wrist, curls his fingers, and Kylo steps back, kneels again.

The silence stretches on.

“I’m sorry,” Kylo says, speaking to the floor.

More silence.

Kylo looks up. “I’m sorry, Master.”

Snoke stares at him—and then looks away.

“Master,” Kylo says, his voice cracking. “Master, please.” _Don’t turn away from me don’t go I can’t stand it I already gave up everything please don’t take this from me too_ —

“Do not speak,” Snoke says.

Kylo bites down on his tongue. _I’m so lonely_ , he thinks, and the words rot and crumble and die in his throat.

*

“Tell me what troubles you,” Snoke says, finally.

It is days later. Kylo has not opened his mouth to speak to anyone during this time, and he aches with it. Aches with the pressure of Snoke’s training, the meticulousness of his requirements, the sheer weight of everything. His jaw hurts and his neck aches. He wakes at night choking on his own spit, the afterimages of green light flashing behind his eyes.

(He is crushed by his own failures, by his inability to be the things that he wants to be.)

Kylo has to suppress the urge to blurt it all out, to lay himself bare, to flay himself open. First impressions matter, they are everything, image is everything, and he cannot have his new Master see him as weak or easily influenced, he cannot have his new Master disappointed in him like the old, he cannot have—

(He can still smell blood on his hands. It has to be washed off by now, but yet, he feels it, in the Force, the gaps he made when he ran them through. The holes he created. He doesn’t know why he feels so empty, when he had destroyed them all and he should feel full, full of his power and his glory and all the things that Snoke had told him he was taking back, all the things he has a right to have—but he is empty and he aches with it.)

“My Knights,” Kylo says, steadily. “I would like to see my Knights.”

“I’ve sent them away,” Snoke says coldly, and Kylo feels it like a stab to his heart.

He takes a deep breath, and then another, looking down at the polished floor underneath him. He will control his emotions. He will control himself. He will not succumb to his own anger. He will not succumb to loneliness. He will not succumb to any human emotion if that is what is required of him, but all his emotions are so snarled up inside him right now that he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling, much less how to purge it from his body—

“They left you this,” Snoke says, and he gestures with his hand.

There is a box on the floor in front of Kylo.

It doesn’t belong in this room; it doesn’t match the polished red and black aesthetic. The edges of the box are ragged, one of the corners is squished, and it looks like it was wet at one point.

Kylo leans in and inhales and wants to sob, because—it’s them. His Knights. He can smell them on it, the individual Force signatures of them, of—

( _Wait, no. You chose a new name. It is within their rights to choose new names too. Let them name themselves, when they come back to you._ )

They touched this box. _They touched the box_. Kylo skims his own hands down the side of it, touches the parts where the container is soggy, the places where it’s dry. The container smells of ashes and damp, rain and lightning.

“Thank you, Master,” Kylo breathes.

“...you needed this?” Snoke asks.

Kylo stills, his heart pounding in his chest, his emotions trying to scream to the surface and his brain working overtime to batten them back down, back down into the secret part of his chest where there has never been anything but _himself_ , whatever _himself_ entails (not Ben, not anymore). “No,” he lies, and then he opens the box with casual hands, and he regrets his lie immediately, feels all of his love for his Knights roar through his body like a wildfire, consuming him completely.

They made him a _mask_ , they made him a mask that is reminiscent of Vader’s, but something entirely different at the same time, they made him a mask so that he could take back his heritage and then surpass it, they made him a mask so that he could become something, they made him a mask because they understand that there is no shame in being who he is, there is no shame in his heritage, there is no—

“I am disappointed, you understand,” Snoke says.

Kylo’s eyes sting.

“It’s such a childish gift—but that’s to be expected, coming from a pack of untrained children.”

_I trained them_ , Kylo wants to scream. _I trained them, and I taught them, and we met at night after Luke asked me to stop, we met at night so that the others wouldn’t be scared, we met at night and I did my absolute best with them and you said I was worthy, did you change your mind, tell me_ —

“Yes, Master,” Kylo says. He closes the lid back over the box, and tucks the box under his arm.

“You’re keeping it?” Snoke asks, amused.

“They had the best intentions,” Kylo says. “I will meditate on my path forward.”

“See that you do so,” Snoke says. “We don’t need to hide anymore, my dark apprentice—we can be exactly as we are, now. We can be honest.”

“Yes, Master,” Kylo says—and his loneliness sits so heavily in his gut that it’s all he can do to rise up from the floor and drag himself from the room.

*

Kylo can’t sleep. It’s three in the morning, and he’s sitting in the corner of his room with his back up against the wall. He knows he’s supposed to be better than this. He knows he’s supposed to be pure and unmoored, unattached and dedicated to the dark side, but he just—he _wants_ , and he doesn’t even know what he’s longing for.

Every muscle he has aches. He was training for hours today, right to the brink of physical exhaustion, and he still feels restlessness twitching under his skin.

He opens up his datapad. He just wants to reach out to someone. He just wants—he wants—

His contact list is empty.

(Where are his Knights? Where have they gone? Why can’t he message them, holocall them? Why has Snoke forbidden contact?)

He carefully presses the intranet button with a thumb that feels too big and too heavy for the screen.

He needs to sleep. He needs to relax. His eyes are burning and his muscles ache and there is something churning in his gut and he can’t calm down, he can’t figure out what his body needs, he can’t figure out why he’s unable to sleep—

(Green light, flashing in front of his eyes.)

He just wants to sleep.

He’s pressing buttons on the intranet, browsing through it without actually realizing what he’s looking at. Here, the feeds for the bridge. Here, an interactive map for every ship in the fleet. Here, radio stations for the individual ships. He scrolls down the list until he sees the Finalizer—and at this, Kylo shifts his thumb, presses down on it. Fumbles at the side of his datapad until he finds the volume control, and turns it up.

_This is General Hux speaking, with a reminder for stormtroopers that reconditioning is a normal part of your training, and should be submitted to without hesitation as required by your superiors._

Kylo sighs, settles back against the wall. Turns the volume up a little higher.

_The reconditioning program is safe. There are no long-term side effects of the program. There is nothing to fear. The last decade of scientific research concerning the effects of the training has indicated that the positive effects are pervasive._

Kylo lies down on the floor, stretches his arm out and rests his head on it, sets the datapad down beside him.

_Research on the effects of the program may be found at the data center on deck two. Your identification is all that is required to view the research on the public access data terminals._

_Familiarity with the program is encouraged._

There’s silence for a long moment afterward, and Kylo fidgets a little, bites at his lip. He’s feeling so restless, he just wants—

_Thank you for your service to the First Order_ , General Hux says, rolling the ‘r’ in ‘order’ in a way that makes the hair on the back of Kylo’s neck stand up. _Your devotion and sincerity to the cause is appreciated._

“Thank you for noticing,” Kylo says softly—and then he closes his eyes, just for a moment, and falls asleep.

*

Kylo wakes drooling on his datapad, his nose pressed against the hard floor and his back sore. His entire body aches, restlessness deep in his bones.

General Hux’s voice echoes from the speakers of his datapad, the broadcast from the Finalizer having apparently run all night.

_Alpha shift starts in seven minutes._

Kylo pushes himself upright, gets to his feet.

_All trains are running on time this morning._

He swallows hard, reaches down for the datapad.

_Alpha shift starts in_ —

Thumbs it off.

His quarters are so silent.

Kylo opens his mouth—but he hasn’t got anything to say, and so he closes it again, having spoken to no one since his ill-advised words to a pre-recorded radio broadcast the night before.

*

“Describe it to me,” Snoke says. “What you’re feeling—unless you would rather that I take it for myself?”

“I feel,” Kylo starts—and then he stops. “I.”

His Master waits.

(Snoke doesn’t need to say that he can do it. Kylo knows that he can, has felt Snoke’s fingers in his mind for years now, but only in the parts that Kylo permitted him to have. He did all of this himself—it was important, that he do all of it himself.)

“I can describe it,” Kylo says, but it’s as much to reassure himself as it is anything else. “I’m not—I’m not sleeping, I feel—” _dissatisfied_ “—like I haven’t quite found my place here yet, but I’m—” _lonely_ “—training hard, I just…”

“Come here,” Snoke says.

Kylo stands, grimaces as he straightens, and approaches the dais. Kneels again at Snoke’s feet.

“Show me,” Snoke says, and Kylo opens his mind, projects everything on the surface—all his anxiety and his fear, his loneliness, the all-consuming restlessness that is gnawing on his bones and twisting in his guts, the unknown thing that is making him pace his rooms at night, the way that he has screamed out the names of his Knights into the void of space and received nothing back—and just as that thought slips out, Kylo thinks better of it, pulls it back and closes the connection.

There is silence for a long while before Snoke finally speaks again.

“I thought Skywalker would have trained that out of you.”

Kylo blinks back tears, looks up at him.

“The...attachments,” Snoke says, his mouth twisting and the distaste rolling off of his Force signature with no attempt whatsoever in hiding it. “That— _thing_ curling in your gut.”

Kylo puts his hand on his stomach. He’s hungry, yes, but he’s not—it’s not… “Master?”

Snoke raises his brow and tilts his head and Kylo gets it, finally, all in a rush, and his face goes pink.

“Master, no, I—you misunderstand, I have always—chastity is part of my training—Skywalker did teach me that, and I agree with those teachings, just those ones, I have—no emotion, no passion, I have—I am—”

_lonely_

Snoke waits.

“I am good at it,” Kylo says, finally. “I have always been—I was, back at the temple...better than the others. I never—not once, and I always...Skywalker permitted love, and I knew that was against the teachings, I knew it, and so I rejected that as well, I am familiar with the texts, I know what is expected of me…”

“And yet, still you struggle,” Snoke says, and his voice is so calm, so gentle, that Kylo cannot bring himself to argue. “You struggle with abstinence. You struggle with dispassion. You struggle with isolation, when it is right that you remain so.”

(Is Snoke right? Is this what’s been eating at his gut the entire time that he’s been here? Is this why he trains until he is exhausted? Is this why he can’t sleep?)

“I advise complete celibacy,” Snoke says dryly, looking away. “Try to control yourself. Stop thinking of your Knights—your desired connection to them is untoward of someone who would be my apprentice.”

_Not that way_ , Kylo wants to say, _I don’t want them in that way_ —but the phrase _would be my apprentice_ stops him dead in his tracks, and he bites down on his own tongue so hard that he tastes blood in his mouth. Is Snoke thinking about taking this away? Is Snoke going to cast him out for not conforming with the rest of the Order? Is he—would he—would he even have a chance?

_...reconditioning is part of your training..._

“Thank you, Master,” he says. “I will—meditate on this, and refocus.”

“See that you do,” Snoke says. “See that you practice—”

Kylo looks up.

Snoke has stopped talking, is frowning, instead, at the display on the side of his throne, before gesturing toward it to activate the comm device.

“Supreme Leader Snoke,” the hologram says crisply.

(It’s the roll of the R that gives him away, even before the figure finishes his sentence, and Kylo’s stomach rolls over like he’s in free-fall, like the artificial gravity has suddenly gone out.)

“I hope I’m not interrupting?” The little blue figure peers around.

Kylo impulsively steps back, reaches to his makeshift hood and pulls it a little further over his face. He’s not certain how far the visual field on the comm device extends, but he can’t be included in this call. Not now.

Not when General Hux is much younger than Kylo had imagined, with sharp cheekbones and a perfectly tailored uniform and a gaze like a laser, piercing through parsecs of space just to drill right through Kylo’s flesh and scan his bones.

Not after falling asleep next to his datapad last night, with General Hux’s voice droning in his ear about reconditioning, and how everything was going to be okay.

(Kylo shoves that thought down too, down where Snoke won’t be able to see it. His loneliness is private. His feelings for the Knights—which, he admits, may be a little affectionate, though in the manner of a sibling rather than a lover—go down there too. The chill that has set into his bones goes there too.)

“My apprentice and I were just finishing our discussion,” Snoke says.

“Ah, good,” General Hux says. He looks around one more time before focusing on Snoke. “I have a report prepared for our next meeting on the progress for Starkiller, and wanted to highlight some of the engineering achievements we’ve made this quarter. I had thought that I might include your apprentice in that meeting, as we’re to work rather closely together, and had hoped—”

“No,” Snoke says. “I don’t think so.”

“—for a tour at any time and—oh.” The figure wavers a moment before straightening. “I see, Supreme Leader. I’ll reschedule for another time.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Snoke says. “No rescheduling is necessary. The report can be sent to my office. I do not need to see you in person.”

General Hux’s eye contact through the holocall does not waver. “Certainly, and the tour—”

“It is an iceborne planet with a hole drilled in the middle,” Snoke says calmly. “There is nothing that my apprentice needs to see there.”

“Of course,” General Hux says smoothly. He looks over to his left, and meets Kylo’s eyes directly.

_He can’t see me_ , Kylo thinks. _There’s no way the field stretches back this far_ , but he ducks his head anyway, because he’s not ready for the general to look at him yet.

Not now.

_*_

_There are no long-term side-effects of the program._

_Reconditioning is normal._

_There are no long-term side-effects of the program._

*

Kylo is still aching by the end of the day, even though training should have made him feel better. He stands in his sonic for an hour, but there’s no water rations left, and the sonic itself isn’t soothing. He doesn’t trust that it’s getting him clean. It’s seven—no, it’s nineteen hundred hours. He’s on a military base now. He’s an adult, on a military base, with a job, and an evening of free time in front of him.

(He still smells blood. It has to be a hallucination at this point. Please, Force, let it be a hallucination.)

He runs his hands over his body, pokes and prods at the sore spots. The right side of his chest is particularly sore, and his ribs ache. He runs the tips of his fingers down his side, over the welts, trying to isolate the most painful spots.

(It’s been weeks, why does he still smell blood?)

He can endure this.

He flattens his hand on his ribs, presses hard and lets the pain flare outward in the Force, dispersing it out in an aura around him—and then, he sends a pinpoint signal out in the Force, out in the other direction, where, if he’s done this correctly, Snoke will neither see nor hear—

— _Knights! To me!_ —

There is no immediate response.

Kylo sets the sonic to cycle through again.

*

And again.

*

And again.

*

It’s oh three hundred hours and he hasn’t heard anything and he’s absolutely freezing, wrapped in blankets and curled up in the corner of his room again because there’s no difference between lying on the floor and lying on his bed.

He hasn’t heard from the Knights. He won’t hear from the Knights. He knows that now. Snoke was trying to let him down gently, was trying to get Kylo to steel his heart so that it wouldn’t hurt this much, knowing that they’re gone. If Kylo had disconnected his feelings, if Kylo had never had those feelings in the first place—all that affection and camaraderie, the knowledge of knowing that they were doing something in secret, the training sessions after hours, just knowing that they could talk to each other, they could talk to each other about anything that was going on—it would have hurt less, but instead it hurts…

...well, it hurts like this. Kylo squeezes his eyes shut, and lies his head down on his arm, and tries to tell himself to sleep, sleep, sleep, it’ll be better in the morning, it’ll be—

His eyes flicker open again. There’s something blinking on the floor in front of him. He reaches over, and pulls his datapad closer. There’s an orange light flashing on the top corner. He fumbles his fingers into the grooves on the back, and unlocks it.

_Contacts (1)_

Kylo skates his thumb over the button, then backtracks and presses it more deliberately.

_New Contacts (1): General A. Hux [Finalizer]_

Kylo blinks. Sits up, and carefully presses the button, switching to his pinky finger for more accuracy.

It’s—fuck, it’s a professional holo of him. Full colour, instead of the wavering blue of the hologram unit embedded in Snoke’s throne, and General Hux has—General Hux has red hair, and green-grey eyes, and he’s so focused, so settled. Like he knows what he wants. Like he knows how to get it.

(He looks perfect, elegant and vicious and cruel, and Kylo would die to have General Hux look at him. He would perish for it. He would lay his saber down on the floor just to have those eyes meet his own. He would—)

Hux’s given name is Armitage. Kylo shapes the syllables carefully with his mouth, drags out the _taaaaaj_ at the end, because it feels good on his tongue. General Armitage Hux is twenty-eight years old. Five years older than Kylo. He must be one of the youngest generals they have.

(General Armitage Hux would never be caught dead curled up on the floor of his room wrapped in blankets because he’s too lonely to function, and too sad to drink the protein slurry from his vending machine. General Armitage Hux probably has a sleep schedule, and eats regular meals at regular times, and he’s never disappointed Snoke, not once. He has no problems with attachments. He has no issues with wanting things he can’t have.)

Kylo skates his thumb over the image again, and the screen flickers, whirrs.

_Contacting General Hux..._

He has time to stop the call. To claim it’s a mistake.

_Contacting General Hux…_

It’s three in the morning. The general will be asleep.

_Contacting General Hux…_

Kylo very carefully uses the Force to glide the datapad away from him, like the only way to guarantee that he won’t accidentally hang up on the call is to float the datapad six inches in front of him, suspended perfectly flat in the air.

_(Control in all things, my apprentice. You are struggling. You are still struggling. Show me that you can control yourself. Show me that you can exhibit precision. Show me_ — _)_

The datapad’s screen goes black, and Kylo lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Then the hologram of General Hux unfolds, hovering directly above his datapad. Six inches tall, and in blue-tinged colour. He’s sitting at a desk with a datapad in front of him, stylus held delicately between his thumb and his finger.

General Hux opens his mouth to speak, then clears his throat. “Commander Ren,” he says, his voice a bit scratchy. “I see you also keep unusual hours.”

Kylo stares at the holo in shock. He’s far enough back that he can’t be seen—again—and he is completely at a loss for words.

Hux is beautiful, elegant and precise, hair perfectly combed, and he is sitting at his desk working with a datapad wearing a _robe_.

Kylo swallows.

Hux’s hand reaches off to the side, and returns holding a tumbler. He wraps his other hand around the tumbler as well, takes a delicate sip from it, and then clears his throat again. When he speaks, for a second time, his voice is much clearer. “I’m afraid all I can see of you are your rooms. Still on the Supremacy, it appears?”

Kylo says nothing.

“How are you finding it? It’s a beautiful ship. I hope the Supreme Leader has seen fit to have you taken around to see the sights. It’s been some time since I’ve had the pleasure, I’m sure much has changed.” Hux sets the tumbler down, and brings his hands up to the lapels of his robe, unselfconsciously adjusting the way that they sit on his space-pale chest. “I do hope you’re settling in adequately. It must have been quite a change for you, coming from all the way over there, all the way to here. We’re lucky to have you.”

Another pause, and then Hux’s brow furrows. “I do hope I’m not speaking to dead air.” His hand comes up, and reaches toward the datapad.

Kylo realizes, suddenly, that this contact with Hux is the first contact he has had with anyone outside of the Supreme Leader since he defected—and he cannot handle the thought of losing it. Not now.

He detaches his saber from his belt, and taps the butt of it on the floor. _Knock, knock._

The delight on Hux’s face is palpable, and Hux immediately pulls his hand back, puts it in his lap. “So, it’s like that then, hmm?” he says. His face goes pensive for a moment as he looks up at the ceiling, tapping his finger on his chin and considering.

His neck is long and lean, his chin soft.

“Well, one knock for yes, two knocks for no, I suppose, if we’re to communicate at all. It will be like a game,” he declares.

Kylo nods—and then, after a moment, knocks once.

“Very well, then,” Hux says. “I don’t suppose we can discuss strategy like this—or, anyway, I shan’t like to when we hardly know each other—so you won’t mind if we treat this as a leisure discussion, will you?”

Two knocks for _no_.

Hux laughs a little as he stands. Kylo has a clear view of the vee of his chest, the oddly decorative knot tied in the belt of his robe before Hux leans forward and picks up the datapad, the holo tilting as Hux moves with it.

“Terrible range on these things,” Hux says. “You’ll not see much more than the odd bit of my furniture, here and there. I assume that you’d ordered some in? All I see from you is empty space, which I can hardly fault you for. I don’t know who had your rooms before you did, but I know who had mine, and he’s got terrible taste—we would have had a good chuckle, you and I, over the state these rooms were in when I got them.”

One knock for yes.

“Here, I’ll dock you here.” Movement again, the hologram crackling and then settling as Hux himself does—on a couch, of some kind, his long legs stretching out along the length of it, somewhere below screen where Kylo can’t see them.

What Kylo can see, though—Hux, General Hux, from the chest up, his robe parted slightly and exposing his collarbones, his face cool and composed and oddly colourless, blue enough to wipe out the brightness of his hair.

_Thank you_ , he wants to say—but they’ve already worked out a system, one knock for _yes_ and two knocks for _no_ , and it’s far too early to break that.

“I was rather put out,” General Hux says. “You wouldn’t see me, the first day that you came. You neglected the Finalizer entirely.” He takes another sip from his tumbler, wraps both his hands around it like it’s keeping him warm. “I hope you had a proper welcome to the First Order.”

Kylo hesitates, knocks once for _yes_.

“Well,” Hux says. “There’s only so good it could have been, you know. After all, you chose not to come to me.”

Kylo has knocked twice before he’s even thought his answer through.

Hux raises his eyebrows, leans in a little closer to the datapad. “It wasn’t your choice?”

Kylo is still hesitating over his answer before Hux leans back, lounges against the back of the couch.

“Limitations of the method of communication,” Hux muses. “Well, then. Shall I tell you of our structure, then? The primer that I would have given you on that first day? Better late than never, I suppose.”

One knock for _yes_.

Armitage Hux begins to speak, and Kylo is enthralled.

*

Kylo tells himself that he’s not going to call again.

Once was enough—a luxury that he never should have allowed himself, not when he is unfocused, undisciplined, uncontrolled. Not when he woke up with his sheets wet, his body slick with sweat and semen, his hair a mess.

He is supposed to be better than this. He is part of the First Order now. He is an adult, this is his job.

He is going to train with his master, he is going to embrace the dark, he is going to—

_(Sith hells, though, it hurts so much…)_

—focus. He is going to give himself over to Snoke’s teachings. To the Order.

To General Armitage Hux.

Kylo’s stomach growls. He paces over to the counter, puts a tumbler under the slurry machine, and presses the button.

The sludge is bitter. It coats his tongue, slides down his throat, sits in his stomach like a rock.

He should go to bed.

He should just go to bed.

_(Sheets tangled around his legs, hair damp with sweat, aching and longing and_ — _)_

“Ah,” Hux says, the image crackling slightly as he adjusts the datapad. “Lord Ren. Still keeping late hours, I see?”

It’s all too easy to tap out a _yes_.

“Myself as well,” Hux says easily. “The Republic never sleeps, as they say. And nor shall we.” He leans back a little, in his desk, and puts his arms back, interlaces his hands behind his head. The sleeves of his robe slip down his arms, and leave his forearms bare. “How was your training today, I wonder?”

One knock for _yes_.

“Yes,” Hux muses, drawing out the sibilance at the end of it. “I suppose my day was about like that as well. We’ve made advances on some of the planetary improvements for Starkiller. Fallen behind in some of the others. I spent half my day down in engineering. It’s an indulgence, and I shouldn’t, but…” He looks directly at Kylo, through the hologram. “One indulges as one must.”

Kylo grits his teeth, looks away even though Hux cannot see him. Even though he’s sitting outside of the range of the transmitter, even though he makes a point of sitting there every time. He is not allowed indulgences, he is not allowed comforts, he should not want the things that he cannot have—

“I’m rather glad you called,” Hux says. “Goodness knows it’s nice to have something to...anticipate, at the end of the day.”

One knock for _yes._

*

It’s three am, and Kylo is calling General Hux. He answers in his robe, with a hot beverage cradled between both his hands, the tumbler black and opaque.

*

It is four am, and General Hux answers in his robe with a clear glass held vaguely in one hand, a darker liquid sloshing about in the bottom of it.

*

It is two am, and General Hux is still in his uniform, but his hand goes to the neck of it, flicks the clasps open and Kylo terminates the call.

*

It is three am, and Hux is seated in his chair. He pushes it back from the desk, and Kylo stares, watches as the General widens his legs, listens to him talk about star destroyers as his knees inch further and further apart, the silk of the robe sliding and exposing a pale thigh, the curve of his calf—

_(Control in all things_ and _complete celibacy_ and Kylo is aching with it, with his inappropriate desire to see General Hux at the end of the day, even though General Hux has not yet seen him, even though Kylo is stationed on the Supremacy and General Hux is all the way over on the Finalizer, light years away—)

“It’s a little ridiculous, is it not,” Hux muses, and he’s drinking something from a clear glass tonight, something dark and rich looking. “You’ve been here weeks, Lord Ren, and I’ve been informed that you’re to co-command the Finalizer with me, and yet…”

Kylo waits. Kylo does nothing, these days, _but_ wait, and the ache of it is like the slowest bleeding wound he has ever received.

(He will be a better person, someday. He will deserve rewards. Not today, but surely—surely someday soon?)

“I have not seen you once,” Hux finishes, staring into the holocall.

(Kylo’s transmitter is focused on the door to his refresher tonight, which he’s left partially open. The overhead lights are off, but he can see the periodic red blink of the light which reminds him that there will be no water this week, there will be no real showers, there will only be the sonic and he can still smell blood—)

“Expose yourself to me,” Hux says idly, but he’s not even looking at the screen as he says it. He’s staring out into his own rooms, where there must be—a viewport, or art, or something interesting. Something that isn’t Kylo. “You must know,” Hux says.

Kylo knocks once, for _yes_ —but he doesn’t move into the range of the transmitter, and after sitting there in silence for twenty five, thirty minutes, while Hux drinks and says nothing, Kylo terminates the call.

*

“No, there,” Hux says.

It’s two-thirty in the morning, and Hux is lounging on his couch, the neck of his robe open and his chest visible, one of his legs bent at the knee and the robe slid down, pooled at his hip, his other thigh preventing Kylo from seeing anything.

( _Cut it out of you_ , Snoke had said. _Leave only a space where desire might have been, and fill it with the dark. You should have surpassed this by now. Your body should not betray you in these ways._ )

“No, not your bed again, although—yes, there, the box!”

Kylo aches for him. He can feel it humming through his body, competing with his focus on the Force, pushing his ability to tap into everything aside and making Kylo self-conscious of the way he moves, an awkward shuffle, his cock throbbing between his legs. He’s holding the datapad with his hands, both of them, because he doesn’t trust his connection to the Force and he’s terrified that he’ll drop it, destroy First Order property.

“You’ve already opened it. It’s the only thing that you have in here. The only personal possession.”

(Hux isn’t entirely right—Kylo has the mask, and he has the datapad. They’re the only things that really feel like his. Snoke makes no reference to his datapad, not now and not ever, and Kylo wonders, somehow, if he’s not supposed to have it. If this is a secret that he is inadvertently keeping, if this is a test, in some way, and if so, how badly is Kylo failing?)

“Let me see,” Hux demands, imperious, and Kylo acquiesces, tilting the datapad forward.

It’s too much, it’s going to be too much—General Hux is even more of the First Order than Snoke is, and Kylo steels himself for what he’s going to hear, the same words that came from Snoke, only in Hux’s crisp, no-nonsense voice—or, even worse, Snoke’s words, Hux’s voice, and the soft, sleep-thick way that Hux speaks to Kylo in the evenings, when time stretches out and means nothing and the space between them is simultaneously light-years and nothing at all, even though they can’t touch—even though Kylo couldn’t touch, even if he wanted to, not if he wants to maintain his celibacy—

_—I expected better from you, Kylo—I don’t want to do this, but there’s no other way that you’ll learn—you shouldn’t need this, Skywalker should have beaten it out of you before you even came to me—so disappointing, Kylo, you’re such a disappointment—_

“Oh,” Hux says in wonder.

—and he does, he does want to maintain, he wants to surpass his own sex drive, he wants—

“That’s marvelous,” Hux breathes. “That’s—wow.”

Kylo peers down over the shoulder of Hux’s hologram, tries to see it as Hux sees it. The Knights—his former Knights—had wrapped the mask in white cloth, nestled it in fabric carefully cut and burned and otherwise rent from their own padawan robes. The fabric doesn’t smell of the Temple, not anymore—nor does it smell of ashes. He has kept the box open, and so, it smells only of Kylo’s own rooms, which smell like—like nothing, really.

(He wonders if Hux, also, smells of nothing. So much of the First Order is sterile and it makes Kylo itch.)

The mask itself is absolutely pristine, the chrome polished to a mirror finish, the body of it smooth and unmarred. Kylo has hardly touched it—enough to know that there is a vocoder attached to it, but he hasn’t put the mask on his head yet, he hasn’t even worn it, he’s not certain that he deserves it—but Hux? Hux might like it. Hux, at least, does not disapprove of it.

Hux’s hologram turns a little, looks over his shoulder, and Kylo reflexively steps back, lets the datapad hover in the air. Stares at the back of Hux’s hologrammed head, watches Hux’s hand come into frame as he lifts his glass, and takes a sip of whatever he keeps in his thermal mug.

“You’ll have to tell me how you acquired it,” he says thoughtfully. “It’s quite unique.”

_Thank you_ , Kylo wants to say, but he cannot open his mouth for fear the entire moment will crumble and fall apart.

“I should like to see you in it,” Hux says, and Kylo chokes back a sob, because he wants that more than anything, and it is something that is completely impossible for him to have.

*

It is one am and Kylo’s hands are aching and his arms are aching and there are bits of debris under his nails, cuts on his hands. He’d tried to put everything back together afterwards but it turns out when you have a saber to smash things up with there’s nothing you can do about the melt afterwards, so much property damage and he’s destroyed it all and he’s—and he’s—and he’s—

It’s three am and Kylo is screaming in his refresher, something that comes up from the depths of his lungs and reverbs out in a psychic wave of distress, washing off the Supremacy and beyond but there is no one to hear him, and his Master is disappointed in him because Kylo is not enough is never enough cannot keep control cannot keep things contained cannot—

It’s five am and Kylo is calling General Hux. He doesn’t trust himself to hover the datapad, can barely even manage to stop shaking long enough to press the call button, and he’s never called this late before, he’s never, but it’s never been like this either, it’s never, he needs, he just needs—

_Calling General Hux..._

(There’s slurry on the floor of his rooms because he’s destroyed that too, and he’ll have to replace everything—his training room, his equipment, his machine, his—his status as Snoke’s apprentice, except there’s no one to replace him with because all the Knights are dead, they must be dead when they’ve ignored him this long, when they won’t answer his calls, and Kylo will have to keep going even though Snoke is disappointed in him, even though there’s no way to come back from this.)

_Calling General Hux…_

This was stupid, this was so stupid, this was—

The hologram fizzes to life, but sideways, General Hux is horizontal, General Hux is—

General Hux was asleep, Kylo realizes, and his stomach twists.

“Lord Ren,” Hux says, voice scratchy. “Forgive me, I—” He sits up in bed, the holocall staying focused on his belly for a moment, on the one button that’s slipped out of its place, and Kylo has never seen him so—

Hux adjusts the camera, tilts it back up to his face. Runs his hand back through his hair. “Lord Ren,” he repeats. “It’s a pleasure.” His voice is still soft, the tone of it muzzy. “You’re well?”

One knock for _yes._

And then a second, seconds later, for _no_.

Hux’s face furrows. He’s closer to the transmitter this time than what he usually is, and Kylo can see all kinds of details on his face that he doesn’t deserve to see, that he shouldn’t get to see, not after today, not after—

“Rough day?” Hux asks. One of his hands goes to the top button of his top, fidgets with it. “Did you meet with Sn—Supreme Leader Snoke today?”

_Yes_. The knock is shuddering, Kylo’s saber skidding a bit across the floor after because his hands won’t stabilize, and he lost his grip on it.

(It was supposed to make him feel _better_ afterwards, he was supposed to feel better—and he does—but he also feels so, so much worse.)

“Myself as well. I always find those meetings so—well, they are what they are,” Hux says. “And to top it off, I met with my father today too, about the stormtrooper program.” He flicks at the button, undoes it completely—and then brings his other hand up, buttons it back up. “I have a...well.” He clears his throat. “Has your furniture come in yet?”

Kylo stays silent. He hasn’t ordered anything yet. He doesn’t like these rooms, they’re too cold. Inhuman. Like Kylo. He won’t be here much longer anyway. Not if he can’t get his shit together. Not if he can’t become who Snoke needs him to be. He could order furniture now, but he’ll be out the airlock before it arrives if he can’t get his life together, can’t get himself back under control.

“You have rooms here as well, you know. They’ll need to be furnished too, unless you’d rather than I look after it.”

Kylo tugs, sharply, with the Force, pulls his saber back into his hand, and raps it sharply on the floor. _Yes_.

Hux blinks, looks a little taken aback. “Oh,” he says, mouth rounding on the word. “I mean—certainly, yes, I can see what we have access to.” He hesitates a moment. “Do you know when you might be joining us, here on the Finalizer?”

_Yes._

“...pray tell,” Hux drawls, rubbing at his eyes with his hands. “Is it soon? Your rooms are empty now, you realize, and I will need some time to make things suitable.”

_Yes._

“Well, then,” Hux says briskly. “I’ll come get you myself, then, at the end of the week—”

Kylo tabs his saber twice against the floor.

Hux sighs. “You’ll arrange it yourself, then?”

_Yes._

“Certainly,” Hux says. His hand is on the top button of his shirt again. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Lord Ren?”

_Make me feel human_ , Kylo thinks. _Make me feel like I’m alive. Tell me what I’m supposed to be doing. Show me where I fit here._

He can’t translate any of those into _yes_ or _no_ , so he ends the call, and, afterwards, feels bereft of some nameless thing.

*

It was stupid of him to think that the uniform of the First Order would be something that he could—slip on.

It was stupid of him to think that just because Hux looks like he sleeps in it—and he knows that Hux doesn’t, he knows for a _fact_ that Hux doesn’t sleep in it, because Hux sleeps in a button-down shirt with the top button loose, with the second-to-last button slid out of its home, with his hair sticking up on one side, with his—

It was stupid. It was so fucking stupid.

Kylo shuts his eyes, hard, and then forces them open, blinks rapidly to try to clear them. The frustrated tears are making things worse, are making things even harder then they have to be, because he looks—he looks—he—

Ben Solo is supposed to be dead, but it’s Ben’s watery doe-eyes staring out of Kylo Ren’s face, and it’s Ben’s ears sticking out from under his hair, made worse by the command cap that looks absolutely effortless on Armitage Hux.

The Jedikiller looked like shit too—drenched in blood and bedraggled, with his hair plastered to his face and his robes covered in mud, and he was in no state to meet General A. Hux then—so how is Kylo supposed to meet him now, when the official uniform of the First Order is tight across his chest and his thighs, and catches at his armpits when he tries to move, when his ears stick out from his hair and he looks like he’s twelve instead of twenty three?

He can’t do it. He’s supposed to meet General Hux in person in—in fifteen minutes, and he can’t get his command cap straight and the boots he’s wearing are heinously uncomfortable and—

—and through the outer door to his room, Kylo can hear voices. He reaches out with the Force, because one of them sounds—

“—a meeting here, yes, I’ll rendezvous with you afterwards. Yes, I’ll ensure he’s introduced to everyone. No, there’s nothing further needed, I’ll take it from here, yes—”

—exactly like General Hux, only crisp and clear and actually present, actually standing right outside Kylo’s door, and Kylo slams the inner door shut so quickly that he can hear the mechanism grind.

(As an afterthought, he reaches a little further with the Force, and locks his outer door. The one that General Hux is standing next to.)

Kylo stares back into the mirror again. His hands are shaking. This is not something that he can do. This is not something that he can do properly, not in the way that General Hux needs. Not with the weight of the holocalls pressing down on him, pushing him against the floor until he can hardly lift his feet. Not with everything. Not with—

—he can hear the outer door to his rooms click open. His stomach twists. He looks to his datapad, and there is a blinking orange light on the top corner. He walks over, unlocks the device, and stares down at the message.

_General A. Hux: Your door was unlocked, so I let myself in._

_General A. Hux: I hope you like the furniture. I see you’ve moved the table, would you prefer something larger, or is the small size of it adequate for your needs?_

_General A. Hux: There’s no rush, by the way. I’ve cleared my schedule._

It’s a lie.

The part about the schedule is partly true, it’s the kind of thing that Hux would find it appropriate to do for a—for a whatever Kylo is, except he’s not that thing right now, he’s just—an overgrown child in an ill-fitting uniform, and he can’t go out there like this, not when he looks—not when he looks like this.

Everything is wrong.

This is not who he is supposed to be.

Kylo sighs, and then cuts his sigh off abruptly in the middle in case Hux can hear. Stands there, staring at nothing, and listening to the soft sounds of Hux moving around in the other room. He’s wondering what Hux is doing, what he’s looking at. What he’s touching.

(There’s nothing of Kylo’s things here either, he had taken nothing to the Finalizer with him except his datapad and his mask and a few changes of clothes, but most of those are for training. He did take the cloak he sewed himself to keep warm on the Supremacy, though. He looks more like himself when he wears it. He would look better with the mask.)

Kylo swallows, looks at the box sitting next to his bed. The box with the mask in it.

Reaches out with the Force to the next room, just lightly enough to pick up a current of high-pitched—frustration, or anxiety, or _something_ coming from Hux, but maybe it’s just anticipation—

(It’s not anticipation, it’s disappointment. Kylo can’t be who Hux wants him to be. It’s why he can’t open his mouth.)

He looks at himself in the mirror again. He is not Ben Organa. He is not the Jedikiller.

He is Kylo Ren, and since he doesn’t look at all like himself right now—he’s going to wear the mask that his Knights gave him.

It would honour them. It will keep him centered.

“Lord Ren?” Hux’s voice, from the other room, high-pitched and anxious and Kylo had best just disappoint him and get it over with—

Fuck, there’s entirely too many clasps on this thing. Kylo tugs at the tunic, and then tugs harder until the clasps give way and it rips, tears right down the center. He tosses it aside, kicks off the stiff boots and pulls down his pants. He’ll wear—fuck, Hux is right there, Hux is right on the other side of the door—he’ll wear his robes, his robes and the cloak that he sewed by hand, and he’ll—it’s not what he intended, he didn’t mean to wear his combat uniform, but he can’t show his face to General Hux when General Hux is perfect, and when Kylo looks exactly like Ben Solo even though that isn’t who he is…

His hands are shaking as he pushes his pants down his thighs, tries to get out of them as quickly as possible. It’s not graceful. It’s not elegant. It’s nothing like the curve of General Hux’s neck into his shoulders. He has—boots that he wears when he’s training, he’ll wear those. His leggings. He doesn’t need underwear, those don’t matter, he’ll just—the leggings, up over his legs. One of the black tank tops, and his long-sleeved tunic over that so that General Hux doesn’t see him shivering. His cloak and then the cowl, and he won’t think about what Snoke said about that, he won’t, because it’s either this or the uniform and the uniform doesn’t fit—

The mask is last.

(Ben Solo is dead.)

His hands are shaking when he takes it out of the box.

He stares at his face in the refresher for the last time.

“I am Kylo Ren,” he says hoarsely.

He picks it up, and he puts it on. Darkness, obscuring his vision—and then light, as the visual receptors kick in.

The figure staring back at him from the mirror is a monster.

_Good._

 

General Hux turns, sharply, when the door opens. He looks at Kylo’s chest first, then his neck, before he finally tilts his chin up to look Kylo directly in the visor of the mask.

(He won’t be able to see any weakness there. Not when the mask hides it.)

“Commander Ren,” he says coolly.

(Kylo wants the intimacy of the holocalls back. He wants it right now. He needs it. He’s never been high before, but if he had been, he thinks it would feel like this—aching for Hux to notice him, to pay attention to him. Aching for Hux’s hand on his arm.)

“General Armitage Hux,” Kylo says, rolling his shoulders to cover for the tremor that goes through him when he hears his own voice, distorted by the vocoder, flat and emotionless.

General Hux tenses, nails digging into the gloved palm of his hand. “ _Arm_ -ee-tidge,” he says coldly. “You’ve pronounced it wrong.”

_Fuck_. Kylo winces under the mask, shifts his weight and tries to get his bearings. _Sorry_ , he wants to say, but he can already feel the weight of Snoke’s disapproval crushing him, so he says nothing, just breathes through the mask, tries to adjust to the vocoder distorting everything.

Hux shifts into parade rest, stares over Kylo’s shoulder. “Your trip from the Supremacy was satisfactory?”

Fuck, he’s gorgeous. The way the artificial light hits his hair, glinting off the pomade. The shine of his boots. His posture is ramrod straight, and Kylo wonders if he’s wearing a corset, if there’s boning underneath his greatcoat, if Kylo could touch him and feel—

Hux clears his throat. “Your trip,” he says tightly. “From the Supremacy. I trust that it was satisfactory.”

“...it was.”

“Good,” Hux says. He swallows, his throat visibly moving. “Have you been given a tour yet?”

“I have not,” Kylo says.

(His Knights thought of everything. The tremors in his voice, the way that he shakes when he is nervous, the way that his tongue trips over his words and his anxiety gets the best of him—all of these things are flattened by the vocoder, all of these things are disguised by the mask.)

“We will start with the bridge,” General Hux says stiffly. “The train is this way. With me, if you would.”

Kylo wants to put his hand on General Hux’s arm. _Lead me_ , he thinks. _Show me the way. Show me the might and power of the First Order_.

But Hux says nothing. And so Kylo, not trusting his tongue, says nothing in response.

 

The train ride is torture.

General Hux stands next to him, tunic clasped tight to his neck, in perfect parade rest the entire way, swaying in anticipation of the movements of the train, even as Kylo stumbles, sets himself as much as he can to keep his footing, and is still off-balance.

It’s not the Hux that he calls at three in the morning, and Kylo feels cheated.

General Hux doesn’t ask him any questions on the ride, just slides his gaze over the other people on the train. Kylo reaches out with the Force, tries to make contact with his mind—but there is nothing there except a catalogue of the other people on the train, a schedule of the moment when they will arrive on the bridge, a visualized barrier keeping Kylo out, and Kylo wants—he just wants Hux back.

Where the fuck did Hux go?

It’s stupid. Kylo knew that it wouldn’t be like it was. He knew that there was no way that Hux would greet him in that fucking black robe, open to his chest. Bare feet. Glass of—bourbon, or whiskey, or whatever it is. Kylo would taste it, and then he would know. He would lick it off Hux’s lips. He would—

He wouldn’t.

He is chaste. He is Snoke’s apprentice. He is one with the dark, he is separate from other people, he is—

—he is aching, watching Hux. Hux wears his greatcoat over his shoulders instead of putting his arms in the sleeves, and it is the most fascinating thing that Kylo has ever seen.

Hux is silent. He keeps looking at Kylo in his peripheral vision, but he is silent, and he says nothing, and his mind is calm, calm, calm…

Kylo hates it.

He wants to go home.

*

He doesn’t know where home is.

*

He’s too close to Hux when they exit the train, nearly steps on Hux’s boots as they disembark. It’s going to be easy, this is going to be easy. He’s going to go onto the bridge with Hux. He’ll let Hux show him whatever he wants. He’ll ask to see Hux’s office.

_Do you keep the alcohol in here_ , he’ll ask. _Show me your rooms. Show me where you sit when I call you._

_I’ll take off yours if you take off mine._

It’s going to be so easy.

(It won’t be easy. This isn’t a thing that he can have. Hux sees him for who he is, sees right through him. Hux knows about Kylo’s vows—he must. Snoke has surely told him, and Hux will think that it is—small, and petty, that Kylo can’t manage to control himself, that his connection with the Force is so fragile that he must cut himself off from everything. This isn’t what Kylo wants either—he wants Hux to respect his vows, but debase himself in front of Kylo anyway—but it’s what Kylo is going to get.)

“This way,” Hux says, and he’s walking so quickly that the greatcoat is swirling out behind him, and he looks elegant and exquisite and like everything that Kylo has never been able to have.

(He can’t have it this time either. He isn’t worthy.)

Kylo falls into step behind him. Hux is walking quickly, but it’s nothing that Kylo can’t keep up with. Fuck, he looks good. He looks so good. He is everything that Kylo wanted to be and couldn’t manage. He is everything that Kylo is going to grow into. He is—

“You have your cylinder with you?” Hux asks.

Kylo nearly trips over his own feet trying to stop. “...what?”

“Your code cylinder,” Hux says. “You should have been issued one.” He gestures sharply at the doors that presumably lead to the bridge. “Otherwise how will you—”

It takes a moment. He skims through the forefront of Hux’s mind, and then he skims the code cylinder itself, but it would have been quicker if he’s just gone directly for the door, because it wants to open, the Force wants it to open—

“Of course,” Hux says flatly, staring at the open door to the bridge. “You...why not. This is. Certainly. Of course.”

“After you,” Kylo says, and the vocoder dulls it out, flattens it.

(He’s failing, somehow, but he doesn’t know how. He just knows that it’s happening, just the same as he could tell by the set of Luke’s face.)

“I should hope so,” Hux bites back, and he turns, greatcoat swirling, and marches onto the bridge.

Kylo knows he’s failing.

(Did he offer it up too soon? Is this why he wasn’t supposed to offer himself at all? Is there language he is supposed to use, language that will explain his need to see Hux exposed without offering anything up of himself?)

And then Kylo enters the bridge, and it’s absolute hell.

The chatter is intense. Everyone on the bridge—and there are so many more people than he thought there would be—is thinking something, everyone is running over lists in their head. Kylo is bombarded with the breakdown of the shift schedules, and the trooper drills, and the statistics on simulations, and worst of all, everyone is looking at Hux.

Hux enters onto the bridge, and absolutely everyone in the vicinity turns their focus toward him, directly toward him.

Kylo has never felt so small in his life.

He spent...he spent so many hours reaching out to Hux at two in the morning, at three in the morning, at five in the morning, and all the while he’d hoped that maybe Hux needed him, maybe Hux needed him the same way that Kylo had needed Hux—but why would he, because everyone on the bridge is totally fixated on Hux right now. Ten, twenty, fifty minds, all laser-focused toward Hux, watching his every movement, their very actions drawing in line with exactly what Hux needs to see from them, exactly what Hux wants from them.

Kylo couldn’t get his command cap to sit straight on his head, and there are fifteen people just within a ten-foot radius who are matching their breathing to Hux, staring at Hux as though they could anticipate his every move—and then Hux flicks his hand, and they all turn away, and Kylo realizes that they can.

They don’t have the Force, but it doesn’t matter, because they know Hux better than Kylo could ever hope to. They understand what he wants better than Kylo could ever dream.

( _The robe was never for you._ )

“Are you quite alright?” Hux asks. His eyes are narrowed and he is staring at Kylo, as though his gaze could pierce through the mask, somehow.

The mask is impenetrable.

Kylo cannot be penetrated.

“I’m fine,” Kylo says, and the vocoder flattens his voice out so that it sounds like he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings (chapter 1):**  
>  discussion of mass murder through pov of murderer / lack of remorse for said mass murder / unhealthy power dynamics between Snoke and Kylo / hints of PTSD / blood and gore mentions / Snoke shames Kylo for having a sex drive / Kylo accepts the shaming and has already internalized it 
> 
> **Aftermath:**  
>  Deadsy is a goddess. She also beta'd this work. We appreciate her a lot. Because she's a goddess.
> 
> Apparently, you can find us on twitter - ktula is [here](https://twitter.com/heyktula) and autumn is [here](https://twitter.com/forautumniam).
> 
> If this chapter wasn't enough to whet your appetite, we're also taking advantage of the alternating POV structure to *drumroll* interview each other! autumn's interview with ktula for chapter one is right over [here](https://ktula.dreamwidth.org/531.html), during which she asks the hard-hitting questions, like 'what's up with the time skips' and 'what's up with you and kylo, dude'.
> 
> Also, autumn made a moodboard which you can find on [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/203811) | [the blue hellhole](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/180893472141/reach-out-and-touch-faith-heyktula) | [and the safe haven of twitter](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1071073452541526016)
> 
> **Update Schedule:**  
>  Reach Out and Touch Faith updates on **Fridays** for the first six chapters! Then there is a scheduled hiatus. Then we're back, for the remaining four chapters! And then we're done.


	2. Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now: a tumbler of cheap whiskey and Ben Solo’s tragic, sad face. A handsome guy, for sure: the candid shot shows him at twenty-two, in a leather jacket, a duffel bag slung over his strong shoulders, home for some holiday and looking permanently pissed. Hux always found it quite hilarious that the poster boy of the Republic, a new hope for a new era and whatnot, never failed to seem an inch away from snapping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please refer to the end notes for **content warnings**

_Today marks the one year anniversary of the Skywalker School Massacre, a tragedy that still keeps the galaxy guessing. Forty dead—including children. When Luke Skywalker opened his School for Force Sensitive Youth, parents were excited to have a celebrated hero as their child’s mentor—but last year, their joy turned into horror._

_“Sola was so scared. All the kids thought it must be so fun, you know, flying objects, all that, the voices. She was terrified. We just hoped Skywalker would help her. We should never have let her go. I keep blaming myself. I’m gutted. There’s nothing left. She would have been fifteen a month ago.”_

_Skywalker remains missing, which led many to speculate that he might have been the as-of-yet-unidentified Jedikiller. Others still believe in his innocence, despite his connection to Darth Vader. The recent suggestion that Skywalker’s School might have been a suicide cult led to intergalactic outrage. Theories are numerous, butthe facts stand: whether he’s in hiding, has been kidnapped, or fell victim to the Jedikiller himself, Skywalker is not available for comment; nor is former senator Organa—although the investigation is ongoing, since there are still seven students missing, including Organa’s own son, Ben Solo._

_We reached out to chief investigator Nova Stakory to hear her thoughts whether the students who vanished might still return to their grieving parents…_

“They’re dead,” Hux says, addressing the officer’s lounge _en masse_. He only gets a reaction from Opan, sitting on the other end of the couch, who gives him a tight-lipped smile. Hux drags his attention back to the holoscreen—it almost pains him; Republic news is so sensational it always feels like a waste of time, even when it happen to have valuable intel. There’s a sign above the screen _, things displayed here may appear to be more true than they are,_ in bright red letters on a grey plaquette that Peavey placed there and Hux always hated. It took him a fortnight to get the joke, because it was apparently a reference to landspeeders’ rearview mirrors. It’s not even funny, because _nothing_ appears to be true; the lies of the New Republic are so blatantly obvious it makes Hux’s blood boil. He grits his teeth and glares at the screen; no matter how much he hates this, he’s an officer, it’s his responsibility to review this vile content, to be aware what the enemy is thinking and feeling, and, well, all right.

There might be an element of hate-watching involved in it.

He might actually enjoy this, in a somewhat masochistic way, sitting on a creaky leather sofa off-duty, with his fellow officers around him—except for Ren, of course, who never graced them with his presence in the lounge. The air is thick with smoke and the smell of alcohol, like in the old days, when all pubs were open for Imperials and the bartenders would bend over backwards when they saw a uniform. When there was respect, and civility, and what you saw on the news, you could take for granted. A bygone age; Hux aches for it, although he never knew it, not personally—there are hazy memories of feeling safe, of walking down streets and—

There was a house, and a cat—

And now: a tumbler of cheap whiskey and Ben Solo’s tragic, sad face. A handsome guy, for sure: the candid shot shows him at twenty-two, in a leather jacket, a duffel bag slung over his strong shoulders, home for some holiday and looking permanently pissed. Hux always found it quite hilarious that the poster boy of the Republic, a new hope for a new era and whatnot, never failed to seem an inch away from snapping. He’s never seen this picture before: they usually show him in Jedi robes, at eighteen, shy, young, awkward, heartbreakingly full of promise. They probably thought a more recent shot would help the search—but Hux is sure all they would find would be a dead body. If Ben Solo had been kidnapped, the abductors would’ve asked for ransom already.

Unless they kept him around for entertainment.

The thought is intrusive, unpleasant; he shifts in his seat, staring at a dead man’s chest, his narrow hips, the endless legs. He looks—dashing, here, a prince of ravaged places.  

_Poor thing_ , Hux thinks as he takes a bitter sip. The drink burns his throat and there’s an echo, _poor thing,_ and he can’t believe he’s still going on about Ben Kriffing Solo, but there’s always been a—kinship, there, from one golden boy to another, because they were both expected, from a very young age, to fix everything the previous generation managed to mess up spectacularly, and if Ben Solo’s attempts got him six feet under ground (or, more likely, floating around in space)—if that’s how it is, what does that say about Hux’s  chances?

He’s twenty-nine, closer to thirty than he’d like to admit, surrounded by his father’s old drinking buddies and a void where his father used to be—and that’s his greatest achievement to date, that _nothing_ , Brendol not being here—he keeps glancing at the chair he used to sit in, nursing a drink, and he’s dead now, and Hux picked up the bottle. He doesn’t like the taste, but he drinks. He doesn’t like the company, but he stays.

He has duties.

The thing is, he imagined his twenties somewhat differently, especially these last two to three years. He has a plan--and career-wise, he’s as accomplished as he always knew he’d be, as Admiral Sloane promised. He enjoys having the best seat, the cleanest glass, the vast personal space.

He’s not entirely thrilled about being lonely.

Having a husband by his side would be ideal; even a boyfriend would do, or just a pretty arm candy; but the volunteers are lacking, so he’ll just sit here for the rest of the shift, drinking and smoking and directing his frustrations at a screen. No one will walk through that door he doesn’t know, or doesn’t outrank, or would want to  bed.

Which is unfortunate; he has a buzz in his stomach—it lingers, and he can’t quite recall how it got there, tries to calculate how long it’s been—yes, over a week and a half since he pleasured himself; that won’t do, not at all. It just seems like such a bother.

The old boys here, wrinkly, ugly and stinky, will get up from their couch, and wobble back to their family quarters—they’ll have partners living there, or will call their wives and husbands, tell them about the date of their monthly shore leave, a whole week of fucking and potentially making more screaming kids they’ll miss terribly, and who’ll miss them back.

Hux is supposed to be at their level at forty. It’s part of the vision: by that time, the galaxy will be conquered, and it’ll be a safe place to have his own terrible children, a cat, a husband, a garden, a view to the ocean. He thought of everything, but it’s been a project without the necessary side-tasks accomplished to get to the end goal. As things stand, having a loved one seems less realistic than owning real estate, although he has hardly any credits to his name, it  all goes into Starkiller, it’s his investment, his future, his _baby_ —and here he is, a single parent.

A virgin.

He could never even seduce anyone for career gains.

He pours himself another drink. He should leave. Get up and go to his chambers, have his weekly wank. If he makes the most of it he might even be able to sleep. The news is over; this is his cue to retreat with most of his dignity still intact, even though he got rid of his gloves and the greatcoat, but nobody expects his uniform to be perfect at 0200—nobody, except himself—and he should get out before he gets another glass and pops a button open, before he ends up like his father. End up in a kitchen with a  subordinate. End up making a mistake with them.

He finishes the drink, because he’s a man of principles, and he doesn’t let things go to waste. Bids goodnight to the party, walks to the door—shoulders straight, back rigid, steps heavy. Runs through calculations; he’s not drunk yet. He can’t afford to be that. _Danger, danger, don’t lose yourself._

The corridors are vast, unwelcoming; they all look the bloody same. He takes a wrong turn, and just lets his feet carry him, away from the living quarters, back to work, back to a world where everything makes  sense. He won’t go to the bridge, that’d cause too much of a stir, but it cannot hurt to oversee certain things, triple-check the auxiliary reactor and the tractor beam power cell, maybe tinker with them a little, get his hands dirty as he takes the secondary axial defense turret apart just to put it back together; that should keep him entertained.

He doesn’t jump when a BB9 unit quite literally runs into him. It rolls back beeping an apology before Hux’s dulled senses can even register the throbbing pain in his shins. He smiles at it, so miserably happy to be addressed, to be needed, because the droid—bless its chips—is telling him about something, the little snitch, a TIE approaching that didn’t hail the Finalizer.

“Well now, that’s not very polite, one ought to say hello,” Hux says, his voice hushed and tender, the voice he always uses with machines, and the one he used to use on Ren, back when he thought their relationship would be—different .

He reaches out to straighten the droid’s antenna, but it’s programmed to shun touch—pulls back, but its beeping is still excited, comically confidential, and Hux feels like an indulgent parent when he follows it to the landing bay. He’s sure the petty officers have the situation under control. TIE pilots tend to come and go without signing for leave, even though proper protocol would have them follow every step of security clearance—no wonder the BB unit got agitated.

Watching the neat rows of fighters, Hux’s thoughts linger on pilots; if he were a different man, of lesser rank, he’d want one all to himself, a cocky flyboy he could strip of armour, a muscled body to warm his bed, starry eyes and a sharp-sharp  smile.

A TIE Interceptor emerges from the backdrop of space. The blue neon framing the entrance reflects back on its gray surface; it looks like a ghost ship in its slow descent. The BB unit beeps anxiously, and Hux places a hand on his blaster just to placate it, _I’ve got this, I’m ready, I’ll protect you, don’t you fear._

There’s a hot blast of air and exhaustion gas pushing at Hux, who staggers. He feels naked and small without his greatcoat, but thrusts the thought away, focuses on his posture—a good stance is the most important layer of one’s uniform, after all, and if he stands just so, imposing and regal, no one will notice his lack of gloves or the purple shadows under his eyes.

The egress hatch opens, and there’s a sinking feeling in Hux’s stomach. He _knows_ it’s going to be Ren even before he sees him emerge—of course it’s him, it’s always him, it all comes back to him. Ren leaps out of the cockpit effortlessly, with infuriating grace, lands perfectly. His helmet has a new dent, his cowl is ragged, and he has a heavy crate under one arm.

“Oh,” Hux says, “it’s you. Jolly good.”

Ren just stares at him, the exhaustion gas swirling around him like mist so he looks like a legendary warrior, battle-worn and larger than life. Hux briefly entertains the thought that he’s dreaming, or more drunk than originally anticipated. Ren stalks closer, still wordless. The silence has to be broken, the awkwardness must be mended.

There used to be a time when it was easier, when there’d been—mutual esteem, an _intimacy_ , even; but maybe it was never intimate; maybe it’s just been convenient to be mildly friendly, or Hux made a mistake not offering a knock-code for leave-me-be, I-am-not-in-te-res-ted, you-are-not-as-cha-ris-ma-tic-as-you-think, I-see-through-you, I-see- 

“How was the trip?” Hux asks, suppressing the tormenting thought process until his mind is blissfully blank. He still can’t be sure it’s working. Ren would be a fool to tell him.

“It was a mission,” he rasps through the voice modulator. It sounds grittier than usual; Hux finds himself trying to discern the emotion there, and stops before he’d make a fool of himself.

Ren is looming above him, and his hand is still on the blaster, but he makes himself sound jovial. “Mission, then.”

“It was a success.”

Hux can feel the BB unit watching them. He wishes it wasn’t there.

“What do we have here?” he asks, indicating the crate, a miserable attempt at small talk before he realises he put too much lilt into it and now he sounds almost mocking. Ren doesn’t seem to mind, so Hux considers himself lucky. He tilts the helmet, which Hux came to interpret as a sign of interest and bemusement, and Ren _humouring_ him is the best option he can hope for after such an intrusive question that came out all wrong.

“Darth Vader’s melted mask,” Ren says, nearly a whisper, like it’s a secret. A shiver creeps up Hux’s spine as he goes on, “It was difficult to acquire. People had to die. Now it’s mine.”

“Good for you,” Hux answers, and thank fuck, he doesn’t sound like someone whose knees are about to buckle, like someone who wishes the lights would go out, and the stars would too, so Ren wouldn’t see the rising colour in his face.

Ren says nothing, and makes no move to step away. The landing bay feels too small for the both of them, the whole Finalizer does, and Hux wishes with a spiteful intensity that Ren would just fucking disappear, turn into fog or a swarm of bats, whatever it is he _does_ , the kriffing _freak_ , Darth Vader’s mask, really, or is he just taking the piss, is he being insufferable again, is he—

“As you were, then,” Hux says, steps back. He can breathe again; he has an ounce of control again, he has the power to walk away, to flee. It’s not a dignified retreat, with the BB unit rolling after him screaming and Ren staring at his back, but he escapes.

He heads to his quarters blindly, head swimming, his mission to tinker quite forgotten, pretences abandoned. When he has to get the cylinder to his door he notices he’s still gripping the blaster, and that the BB unit is nowhere. He’s all but panting as he lets himself in, shaking in his boots, the harsh lights an assault on his senses. He feels like he walked through darkness, like it’s still sticking to his skin.

“Lights to ten percent,” he says. His back is pressed to the durasteel door. He doesn’t dare to move, not even when his droid powers on.

“Good evening, General Hux; what can I do for you?” K4 says, calm as ever. Hux tries to focus on that, calmness, cool metal, predictable thought patterns, order.

“The crate,” he says, clears his throat and has to repeat himself. “The crate under my bed, the grey one. Would you please kindly fetch it for me?”

“Right away, sir,” K4 answers, waddling away. Hux follows him with his gaze—too slow, why are droids so _slow_ —and wills himself to move, but he’s still paralysed by something primal, something more ancient than fear or—

He pushes himself away from the door, takes two steps, halts. Two steps, now all he has to do is the rest—walk to the couch and—there it is, his blue couch and the stainless durasteel table, his own chambers, he’s safe here—that is, he could be. He removes the belt with the blaser, is about to drop it before he changes his mind and sets it down carefully, next to his thermomug and the datapad with a string of notifications. K4 returns, and Hux pretends not to notice it, adjusting the objects on the table so they all line up with the edge—he did it this morning but it never hurts to do it again.

“The crate, sir,” K4 says.

“Much obliged.” Hux nods, indicating the table. K4 settles down the crate carefully. Hux looks at it, breathing heavily through his nose. He can feel his nostrils flaring out.

“Anything else I can do for you, sir?”

“No, thank you; you may go to the closet and power off.”

He feels bad about sending it there, but it cannot be helped. He heads to the ‘fresher, grabs a towel and a box of tissues, listening to the sounds of K4, alert until all he can hear is the hum of the ship. Walks back to his living quarters, places the towel on the couch, the corners tucked in, everything in its proper place.

He palms his cock briefly. He’s as hard as he feared. He licks his lips, and unbuttons slowly, still standing—he should be sitting down for this, but he wants to see, he wants to make sure, assess the situation correctly before he’ll proceed—

There it is. There’s no denying it. His cock is fully erect, flushed and swollen, arching up to his trembling belly, the tip glistening. He doesn’t dare touch it, but he watches it while breathing slowly, and feels like it’s not entirely his, that it doesn’t really belong to his body—he has no control over it, he is—

_Whose cock is this?_ he imagines a voice asking, mocking, he can tell even through the vocoder, and he whispers, “Yours, it’s yours.”

_You made it like this and I have to deal with it alone,_  he thinks, resentful, and shuffles to the desk, steps awkward with his jodhpurs pooling around his knees. He sanitizes his hands: there. He should take a sonic first, but he’s afraid he wouldn’t last, that he’d come from a touch of hot air, and he wants something different. Wants something like this. Wants his own design, his own undoing.

He gets rid of his boots and the trousers, but decides to leave the socks and the garters on. The tunic, he only unhooks; the underwear has to go. They all end up in a neat pile, and he uses the hand sanitizer again. It has a sharp, sobering scent. He focuses on that as he opens the crate—it scans his fingertips, then clicks open with a reassuring sound. Hux considers his options, biting on his tongue, but he already knows what he wants. He knew it the moment he saw Ren’s TIE arrive, when he _understood_ he was back, when he came closer and he got a whiff of his scent, and smelt danger and death.

There’s a pair of thigh cuffs, steel and leather; the silicone stroker for his cock; the robotic anal beads, which he coats with lube liberally. They’ll slick him up while stretching him wide open, making their way inside until he screams for them to stop. He puts in the first small bead as he’s sitting on the towel, legs awkwardly spread, and sets it for automatic insertion and lube-refill. He rolls on the stroker, wondering what Ren would make of his preparations as he starts the vacuum suction programme. Would it help his case that he made all his toys himself? Surely, the engineering is to be congratulated, but there’s a weakness in the design: all his toys are in cold, inhuman colours; he didn’t want them to remind him of what he’s missing, he wanted them to be sufficient on their own, to be enough.

The joke’s on him. He cuffs his hands to his thighs with voice control, sitting there all alone as his inventions work on pleasuring him at a slow pace—it’ll take thirty-five minutes with the current settings, thirty-five minutes with his own thoughts, because he can’t switch off those, can’t replace them with clever machinery.

What he’s left with is this: a steady pressure on his rim, a building suction on his cock, the thrill of being restrained, all in vain, because he’d just get bored and go soft if he wasn’t imagining entirely different sensations in an entirely different situation.

His mind takes him to Ren’s interrogation room—oh yes, that’s a classic. Somewhat dated; it had more thrill in those first months when he couldn’t tell if Ren was going to betray him, torture and kill him, or hand him over to Snoke for execution, if that was his _function_. When he thought they would debase and use each other in the most delicious ways. The long version includes the details of Ren tying him to the table, not saying anything but Hux would know why he’s here: because he has treasonous thoughts about Supreme Leader Snoke, and Ren has sensed them. He’ll pluck them out of his mind one by one, no matter how hard Hux fights it, wriggling around and gasping; by the end of it, he’ll be left in a boneless heap, and that’s where he starts the scene now, at the moment of defeat, all his aspirations laid bare, Ren towering over him, triumphant.

_Is there a way,_ Hux tells him in the fantasy, _is there a way I could convince you not to tell him?_

_What do you have in mind?_ Ren asks, forces him to say it.

_I want to suck your cock, please don’t tell and I’ll suck your cock, please._

He leaves out the details of the deal, and imagines this: hanging upside down, Ren’s cock poking at his palate, his jaw aching and saliva smeared all over his chin. He’s choking on Ren’s straining cock and loves every torturous inch of it, the impossible girth, and loves Ren’s total control over him—loves him silent and unresponsive, nothing to indicate that he’s satisfied with Hux’s performance except for the snap of his hips, how he keeps fucking his throat like he can’t help it, like he can’t just fuck _anybody_ , like it has to be Hux, for whatever mystical reason.

Hux would be hopelessly hard, leaking into his pants, his poor cock making a small bulge, and once he thought about Ren making a note on it, how tiny it is, but it ended up being a turn off—he wouldn’t want Ren to be mean. He wants him to be—entertained, to gain something more than a power trip. Ren would see his whiny need to suck cock, how he’d be salivating to do it, and he’d let him, and let him keep up the pathetic pretence that it’s for Ren’s sake, that it’s a _favour_ for him, a bargain chip, when Hux gets to keep his life and gets to drool over Ren’s monstrous cock. Ren knows it’s all about him and he’d still, he’d humour him—

(The head tilt in the landing bay. How he loomed over him.)

He’d see right through him and—

( _Kneel_ , Ren could’ve said, and he would have. He would’ve dropped to his knees right there, damn the watchtower, damn the patrolling troopers, he wouldn’t refuse such an offer, he would’ve went down to the ground, pressed his face into Ren’s hot groin, _welcome back, Lord Ren_ , he would’ve unzipped Ren’s trousers, and went to work with careful kitten-licks while Ren stroked his hair—)

(He’s big, he’s so big, and Hux is such a size queen, he knows he’s big, he saw him adjust himself once—that was the first evidence he ever got that Ren, indeed, had a dick, long and meaty, he could see the outline as he grabbed it, roughly, _twisting_ at it as if it was in the  way, as if he was really bothered by its weight, and Hux couldn’t think of anything else for a week, and he keeps returning to this memory, Ren did it during a _meeting_ , it wasn’t at all discreet, he probably thought no-one was watching, but Hux was, he was sitting right across him, and he stopped playing with the stylus and—)

The chest, what about the chest, that wide expanse of it, and the outline of the pecks, it’s so _obvious_ when he’s in a tunic, it’s so—

Grab two handfuls—

Ren on the ground and Hux straddling his torso, he’s wearing the mask, of course, Hux cannot be sure what’s under that—whether it’s even _human_ , whether there’s _anything_ there—

(Once he had a dream of taking the mask off, and there was just emptiness: he beheaded Ren with his bare hands and woke up with a palm on his cock, stroking himself.) 

So he’s straddling him and fucking his chest, and Ren seems mildly bored already, his head rolling to the side as Hux moans and wheezes and embarrasses himself, hips snapping frantically. Ren’s chest is coated in glistening lube, Hux has made such a mess, and Ren doesn’t care. He lets Hux have this, but he’s soft in his trousers—Hux discovers this as he tries to sit on his cock, greedy, greedy, he grinds down, but he can’t make Ren have an erection if Ren doesn’t want him to, and why would Ren want him to, he’s been rejected, after all his efforts, all the holocalls, the cheap tease, he’s been refused; all they’re left with is an embarrassed politeness. Ren looks at Hux through the mask, seems to ask, _are you quite finished,_ while he’s still—vanquished, and he doesn’t know what he wants, he wants to keep fucking Ren’s chest but he needs a cock up his arse at the same time, and it’d be impossible unless there was two of Ren, because nobody else—

(There a flash of Ben Solo in his pilot jacket that makes him thoroughly uncomfortable, but well, he’s there now, it cannot be helped. He watches as Hux grinds down on Ren’s flaccid cock, he watches him with those soulful eyes, that bashful smile, gets a hold of his waist—gently, tries to pull him away, off of Ren— _sugar, why don’t you get yourself a lover who treats ya well_ —shit, he’s overdoing the Republic accent in his head, but there are no recordings of Ben’s voice—he’s pulling him closer but Hux scrambles for Ren. He’s writhing, naked, both men are clothed (Ren’s tunic is buttoned up now, suddenly, with the logic of fantasies)—Ben holds him, keeps him still, and Ren just watches, he doesn’t do anything.

_That’s it_ , Ben tells him, puts a hand over his come-slick belly, _be good now, now be good for me, I know you can be,_ and, well, yes, in theory, he could—do that, go down that path, imagine New Republic hero Ben Solo pinning him down with his fat cock, fucking his pale little ass raw, leave some handprints there (Jedi are apparently into spanking, who could’ve guessed), he’d be all bright smiles and laughter, and it’d be nice and all kinds of morbid, but what about Ren? He looks like a plastic doll now, just another sextoy, but it won’t even function, Hux can’t make him get it up, whatever he does, he could never make him want him—

Ren’s gloves are off and his hand are blood-red.

_Baby_ , _baby,_ Ben Solo says, and Hux wants to tell him, _look out,_ but he can’t speak and Ben is saying, _do you wanna come with me, I’d spoil you rotten, I’d eat your tight little hole out, do you want that, do you wwwwant me tttto eattt you outttttt_ —he’s choking, Ren is choking Ben, and still, Hux doesn’t say anything, but he thinks, _thank you thank you thank you only you_ and he’—)

He’s coming.

This is it.

That tremble, and the spasms in his muscles, and the cry he can’t help, torn from his throat, wet and ragged, a wordless yell. The program is not over yet, the machines keep working on him and he keeps coming, and it’s like Ren is there with him; as if he was sitting in his lap, and Ren was stroking him through his orgasm, as if Ren was proud of him, because he was—

“Loyal, you’re still loyal to me,” he’d say, his hard cock hot against Hux’s bare buttocks as he starts sobbing. 

*

Hux wakes with a start, throat dry and chest heavy, and all he can do is choke out, “Kayfour!”

The closet opens and there’s a terrible moment there, because the lights are dim and he’s  still half asleep, and he cannot quite _see_ what’s moving through the dark, it could be a Rebel fighter, it could be five or ten of them, it could be over, he could be outnumbered and he could still be a child. They’d come for him in the dead of night, they’d pull him out of bed, you always have to check under the bed, and in the closet, in the ‘fresher, they could be anywhere, he could be—

“How may I assist you, General?”

—the last man standing, he’d die in his pyjamas, he’d bite down his tongue, bleed out before they could get a word out of him, and he should consider—

“I’d like some water, please.”

—cyanide teeth, an implant, and when he bites down he’d die, but he grinds his teeth too much, he could accidentally—

“Coming right up, sir.”

—kill himself, oh he knows a thousand ways to kill himself, he’s been taught, he—knows—but it’s all right now, he looks around frantically once K4 can’t see him, even looks at the ceiling, but there are no rebel soldiers there, of course there aren’t. _Peace, peace, peace, armistice_ , they don’t even know the Finalizer exists, and it’s the best guarded destroyer—besides the Supremacy—but this is the second safest place to be, right here, blaster at the ready, under the pillow, and there are knives to throw, and if it would come to it, he’d fight tooth and nails. There’s nothing to fear.

_I’ll always have myself. I’ll always be in my corner._

Still: when K4 hands him the water, he has a hard time swallowing it, because his throat is closed off. He breathes through his nose, breathes how he’s been taught to, calculates his pulse. He’s sitting up in the bed, shivering, and suffocating in a glass of water.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” K4 asks.

Hux can’t answer for a moment, runs calculations in his head, _I am_ _70% percent terrified and 20% anxious and—_

“Hold me,” he says.

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“Place one of your hands on the small of my back,” Hux says, “and put the other one around my shoulder.”

“Right away, sir,” K4 says. It doesn’t sit on the edge of the bed; bends forward awkwardly, looming into Hux’s space, and its hands are cold and heavy. It keeps them still, no patting or rubbing, and Hux is too embarrassed to ask for that—feels  pathetic as it is—so he settles on sitting up stiff and just enduring it.

_It doesn’t have to be like this_ , he reminds himself, staring into the half-dark, enclosed in the mockery of an embrace. This could be real; this could be with somebody. He’s reminded of the Plan again, his mind keeps coming back to it, _I’m almost thirty, I’m almost fucking thirty,_ and he just doesn’t— _get_ —how did it all go so wrong, so he forces himself to think about that and try, again, to understand, as his heart races and the taste of water goes bitter.

First step, be unlovable. So unlovable that not even your mother—

No, he can’t do it, let’s start with the Academy. He was thirteen, and he was transferred to the Vengeance, because Arkanis was long gone by then, colonized by the New Republic, his countrymen killed, imprisoned, robbed, told they were being done a favour, that this is what liberation from the Empire looked like. Arkanis Academy had been turned into a bank, so the Republic could cash on the despair—

But he’s distracting himself with politics. Come now, to the thick of it: _you were thirteen. You were sent to the Academy of Vengeance, and you’ve heard certain things concerning loneliness, teenage boys and shared beds. You thought, surely, in a few years’ time. Surely, somebody would be lonely enough, or horny, or bored, or seeking father’s favour through you, and they’d want you, and you could take your pick, you’d have so many boys to choose from._

_You’d just have to wait it out._

_And you waited—you grew older and older and what happened, huh?_

_All those boys were talking about pussy. How much pussy they were getting. They snuck out. Went to dances. Knew somebody. Met at weekends._

_You believed them._

_Surely, half of them were virgins. But even those weren’t interested in your sorry arsehole._

_Cadets like you, boys who liked boys, they liked nice boys, funny boys, boys who knew their way around. You were never any of that._

_You were a nerd and you were keeping company with the girls._

_And they’d say, it’s not fair, they want all the girls to themselves, what are you doing there._

_Everybody wants a gay best friend. You weren’t even that. You were a second-rate gay acquaintance, and as soon as they got themselves a boy to date, they ditched you. (You were so ready to steal their boys. It never happened.)_

_So this was your first mistake. That you kept waiting._

_Second, you went to study engineering like an idiot. No buff guys there. Not the ones you like, the burly brutes, towers of muscle clad in leather. Because you had standards. You should’ve just let Barnaby Varn feel you up and be done with it, but you wanted someone like—(don’t say it)_

He thinks of Kylo Ren. He thinks of the rest, the others: of waiting for chances to miss, offers to turn down, shady shags, infamous midnight rendezvous. And how nothing happened.

There were smiles, and lingering glances. Drinks. Dates, even, a few of them. But he never caught up on that moment that came up in a hundred holos, _your place or my place_ , it was always _thanks for the evening_ , and maybe a kiss, and never knowing what to do to make it something more. And then he was busy, and there were ignored messages, and then he just—ran out of people, really, and time and places to meet the few who were left, who he hasn’t outranked yet, or who were civilians who could be trusted. ( _I devoted my whole life to a top-secret military junta I can’t tell you anything about_ just wasn’t a thing for dating sites.)

The First Order has forty-five generals at present. They are all older than him by at least two decades. Most of them are straight. Three of them are ace. Half of them are women or non-binary. Statistically, he should fuck General Ardmore Wu, because he’s literally the One for him within the organisation.

If he doesn’t count Lord Ren.

And he shouldn’t count Lord Ren.

Lord Ren does not count.

Counting on him was foolish.

His little crush on him is ridiculous. Ren never showed interest, not really. He’s been misinterpreting those calls. Ren never reacted to the clumsy attempts of seduction, the bloody buttons, the robe, Hux half-reclining on the couch, all but spreading his legs and screaming _I lubed up for this_. He’d just knock his NOs, which didn’t imply interest, much less attraction, and Hux was a fool to make himself believe that a willingness of communication implied anything intimate. It became evident the first time they met in the flesh; Ren’s cold indifference, his mounting dismissals. After they started working together proper, Hux would shower him with small pleasantries, ask him about his day in a professional manner, he wasn’t going to be _pushy—_ and on the rare occasions Ren responded, his voice was a bored monotone. Hux’s smiles were never returned—of course, there was the mask to consider, but surely, Ren must know his way around that.

The constant dissents made Hux want him all the more, and made him resent him. Passionate outbursts were ignored, just like petty jabs. Hux couldn’t do anything to get his attention, much less his cock and/or bargained help. There’s nothing to be gained. There’s nothing on offer. 

This ridiculous _crush_ , Hux decides, needs to die.

It’s been going on for long enough. 

* 

Except there comes the morning shift, and he’s on his way to the bridge when his comm goes off. He prefers not talking on the train. Commuting with a mass of technicians, a newly appointed internal affairs officer and lingering troopers through the Finalizer is galling as it is, he needn’t make it worse. Taking the call would mean officially kickstarting the madness of the cycle: it’s bound to be a busy one, he can tell, even though he haven’t even had his tea yet. 

His comm keeps vibrating, but it’s not the emergency frequency. It can wait. He watches featureless corridors pass, a blurred mass, the white noise of the train like a lullaby, and the warmth of his greatcoat seems to be pulling him down, back into bed.

It’s a humiliating irony: he can’t sleep and can’t wake, never learnt how to fake being an early riser, and no amount of stims, caf or tea—

The comm is still buzzing. He glances at it, out of a lazy sort of curiosity, he’s too exhausted to be bothered, he’ll be reporting to duty in three minutes, surely it’s not that—

The call is from Ren.

He looks at the screen and loses his nerve immediately. Dismisses the call without thinking, just a flick of the thumb and then what-have-I-done, it’s so _unprofessional_ , it’s cowardly, but it’s like Ren is breaking a boundary, returning to an old habit as if he had forgotten they were no longer on friendly terms, as if it _can_ be forgotten. 

He feels like he’s choking and for a second he thinks it’s Ren’s doing, but no, it’s just nausea. It’s one of those days, those very rare days, when he’s not entirely certain how he’ll make it through the cycle, without—some sort of _scene_ , because he feels so raw today, a poke would be enough and he’d start to bleed, it’s like he has no skin.

The drink was a mistake, and that stroll to the landing bay in the graveyard shift, the wanking, his pathetic little fantasies, the nightmares (they have to be his own doing)—they left him exposed, and he’s not sure how long he can keep up the charade of wearing the emperor’s clothes, because—

That’s Ren in the station, and he must know— 

The train pulls to a halt, and Hux doesn’t dare to move, but if he doesn’t move, the train will go on, and he’ll be late, and he’s never done that, and.

Something tells him that the jig is up. As he steps down the platform, back straight, eyes like steel, upper lip stiff, he thinks that they can all see through him, Ren most _certainly_. There’s a terrible moment there, the door to the bridge is right behind Ren, and it’s like he’s guarding it and Hux will be denied access, and he’ll be charged for his dreams and longings, and they’ll count his tears, because he was so frustrated last night that he angry-cried himself to sleep.

“General Hux,” Ren says.

Hux’s steps almost falter. There’s a promise of absolution there, behind the urgency—Ren is calling him by his name, he says it in a way no one else does, like—

Of course, of course, he’s fooled, he doesn’t know, he wasn’t here when Hux was just a major and his name was still mostly his father’s property, Ren is new here, only a year, Hux is saved, he’s saved, he’s saved—

“There’s an emergency,” Ren is saying.

And that does it. Something is just—snapping.

“Why didn’t you use the emergency frequency?” Hux spits, storms past him, this is what he needs, the righteous fury. “Brief me!”

“You have declined my call,” Ren says on a tone that suggests that Hux has been _summoned_ , and it’s perfect, the arrogance of it. Hux makes a fuss of getting his cylinder, feels Ren looming behind him and tries to radiate irritation, but there’s also relief, and all he wants to say is _I’m_ _sorry_. Ren makes it all so easy,  he has the unique ability of snapping Hux out of his banthashit with stuff like this, like not using the emergency frequency, or his mystical powers, and now this, his sullen silence when Hux asked to be briefed.

He misses the time when were less variables about Ren, and whispering to him in odd hours and getting him to knock back an answer ( _yes, yes, yes_ ) felt like he was taming a beast. Not an animal: some monster he was the first human to ever encounter. It was a foolish thing to domesticate him, to bring him here; how could this place—this narrow passing they walk through, a new set of security doors—ever contain something like Ren? Why was he ever such a fool as to think he could get him to eat from his hands?

Ren wields silence like a saber, and Hux knows better than to pick up the fight. They enter a secluded meeting room, and Phasma is there, illuminated by the low blue glow of a map. Hux frowns at it suspiciously.

“What’s going on?” he asks when the blast door slides shut behind him and Ren. He wants to make it sound like a official enquiry, but it’s like he’s whining.

“Master Snoke felt a disturbance in the Force,” Ren says as he rounds the table, takes a look at the map. The silver details of his mask reflect the lights back.

“In that case, Leader Snoke should consider contacting the Department of Mumbo-Jumbo.”

Kriff, he should watch it. Phasma snorts, but it wasn’t exactly funny, and she makes it worse by saying, “We have an order from Leader Snoke to investigate the matter,” a cruel reminder to be professional, but it’s not like Hux is trying to _evade_ a task, it’s not like he’s not always fucking hands-on, at Snoke’s back and call. As if to prove his willingness to be involved he steps to the map, looms over it and frowns  again.

“Jakku,” he says. He _remembers_.

“Not many people would recognise it at a glance,” Ren says; Hux can’t decide whether it’s a compliment, or if not, then what’s the point of the remark.

“Well, most people don’t have a basic grasp of geography,” Hux mutters, zooming in on a ridge.

“Which is why I suggested we involve him,” Ren says, addressing Phasma. Hux can feel his face colouring, it’s both being flattered and anger, and he decides to go with the latter.

“Because I have a _basic_ grasp on geography?” The narrow valley looks a lot like Kelvin Ravine, which means— “It has to do with Tuanul, isn’t it?”

Ren falters for a moment, as if he was going to say something and got interrupted, then settles on “Yes.”

“Commander Ren has a theory that the Force-worshippers inhabiting the village might have caused—” Phasma makes a vague hand gesture.

“Master Snoke believes it’s Skywalker,” Ren says darkly.

Hux feels his shoulders sag. Bloody hells, he’s tired. He’s tired of this wild bantha chase that has been eating up resources the past year, of how Snoke keeps being sidetracked by a hermit who is hiding away somewhere in guilt or shame.

“So, another surprise strike.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. Right. Okay. They can do this. They shouldn’t, but they will; suck up to a mad leader’s paranoia, make a show of it, waste time on it. “What do you need?”

“The troopers—” Phasma says the same time Ren blurts out, “I need you.”

There’s a heavy pause, then Phasma goes on calmly, “The troopers will be ready in twenty. Leader Snoke wants a regiment, which I suggest we divide into two squadrons.”

“I need you to accompany us, General,” Ren says.

Hux looks at him and _knows_ that Ren won’t waver; recognises the stubborn set of his shoulders, and there’s something unusual in how his chest rises, like it’s hard for him to breathe, suddenly. It must be the mission, and nerves, and if Kylo Ren is nervous, that means they’re doomed; still, Hux tries to stand his ground.

“You don’t need me,” he says softly. “You’ll have a regiment, so what you need is a lieutenant colonel—”

“Keep your lieutenant colonel,” Ren all but growls; it sends a shiver through Hux, he’s slightly flushed still and blessing the darkness, because _there_ , that was a trace of Ren’s accent, he pronounces both words wrong, and the vocoder doesn’t help, that mask can’t keep _all_ his secrets. It also doesn’t help that he knows shit about military strategy, and Hux feels like he has the upper hand, just for the moment, then Ren says, “It was different, I felt it too.”

“Yet you’re sceptical,” Hux points out, grasping for control that’s already slipping through his fingers, because Ren will have the final word, won’t he, he’s the Supreme Leader’s _favourite_ , and if this pfassking mission concerns mysticism Hux is _useless_ — “You suspect the villagers might be involved, not Skywalker.”

“It’s a theory,” Ren says, and the way it comes through the mask is almost—cute? Petulant, in any case. Hux tries to compose himself and points a finger at the Graveyard of Giants, but Ren apparently had the same thought, because he gestures towards it and it results in his fingers brushing over Hux’s wrist.

It’s just above the button of his glove. He can feel the texture of the leather, for a moment, before Ren pulls back with such an offended vigour Hux feels like a harlot for—showing skin, even just an inch of it, and he mutters, “Excuse me,” tries to compose himself, focus on what he was going to say, focus on Phasma, pretend she’s the only person present here. “Sorry,” he adds; Brendol must be turning in his grave, if he had a body, that is, he always tried to beat over-apologising out of him. “I meant to point out that if we approach the village from the Graveyard, we might avoid being spotted by the locals—” 

“An approach from the Sinking Fields is far more practical, time-wise,” Phasma interjects as Ren stands still, fingers curled into a fist, and Hux almost apologises again, but thankfully, Phasma manages to distract him. “I’m not concerned about visibility. It’s not exactly a covert mission. With all due respect, this is... Jakku.”

“So I take it you’re comfortable flying a shiny shuttle over Cratertown and marching our troopers there, in broad daylight—”

“I am,” Phasma says, “because it’s _Jakku_.”

Hux rubs his chin, briefly, a bad habit he can’t shake off (he should never bring attention to any soft parts of him) and chances a glance at Ren, who’s still motionless.

“What’s your input?” he asks, jolting Ren out of whatever reverie he managed to sink into.

“What Captain Phasma said,” he announces, and storms off; apparently, the he considers the meeting concluded, and Hux has to resist shouting after him, _what happens once we’re there, what should we expect, what is our bloody strategy here,_ but it’s so typical of Ren to just vanish when he’s needed the most, so Hux does the best he can: preparing for the worst.

*

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Ren says just as they break atmo.

Hux couldn’t care less about his feelings: he had to plan a military operation in fifteen minutes, and prep an entire regiment en route. The DX-9 shuttle is stuffed, the air thin. The troopers await their destiny standing, headed to a battle that might never happen. Thick, orange clouds are swirling beneath the shuttle, and the sunlight is blinding.

“Landing in five,” their pilot announces. Hux resists counting back the minutes, and squirms in his seat, safely strapped in. He wants it to be over, his mind already on the duties he abandoned on the Finalizer, half-finished projects, routine checks, a dash of bureaucracy: humdrum business, which make it seem so unlikely that a Jedi knight might be laying low  down there, that some legendary battle is about to happen, where lightsabers will clash and some mystical world-order will be restored.

He keeps stealing glances at Ren, who looms behind the pilot’s chair, a gloved hand gripping the headrest. Hux will scream if they don’t find Skywalker, and if they do, he’ll die cursing his name. There’s resentment and boiling rage, the sting of offence ( _I’m a general, I have no place here_ )—yet still, there’s a question on the tip of his tongue, _are you all right_ , and it’s hard to swallow it back down.

For all he knows, Ren might just be a battle-droid, a clone, a phantom, a _something_ ; but he’s a familiar creature: Hux is fluent in his tells, knows that he prefers to stay in the cockpit, reads his impatience from the flex of his fingers, his anxiety from his bended knees; he’s ready to lurch and attack something, and if Skywalker won’t be there, somebody else will suffer. 

Hux opens his mouth, wants to ask, _can you—feel him, detect his energy, whatever it is you do_ , but a terrible tremble rattles the shuttle, and the pilot curses.

“Shit, this ain’t no cloud,” she says.

“What _is_ it?” Hux demands as something pushes against the durasteel walls violently, making them groan and creak.

“Sandstorm,” she reports.

Ren turns sharply, probably taking a glance at the geosensors—they haven’t been calibrated properly if they didn’t pick up on the weather. Hux gets to his feet, which is against his training, _remain seated during turbulence_ , but he doesn’t care, because the way Ren tilts his head is a dead tell, _he’ll karking murder the pilot_ , and they cannot _have that_ —

“MZ-3846!” Hux yells.

“Aye, sir!”

“You’re co-piloting!”

Their grades are the best, they’re top of their class: Hux looks at the lines of troopers, the identical helmets, and knows each of their individual strengths and weaknesses, which makes him hope that they might survive this, the pilot included. He makes his way to her chair, through shaky ground, and grabs it, his hand next to Ren’s, just as the pilot closes a hand around her neck, desperate.

Admiral Sloane taught him that there are only two ways to give an order: in a shout, or a whisper—you might have to scream to snap your troops out of panic, affirm authority, but other times, you need to be very-very calm, and that worked on Ren before, it worked—

“Ren,” he says, a gentle warning. He anticipates more pleading and coaxing, a reminder to focus, to help, to be a bloody commander, but Ren turns to him immediately. Hux can see himself reflected on the featureless mask, his image distorted, and he looks more alarmed than he feels, looks younger, eyes round and face too pale, and Ren steps away from him.  

The pilot takes a heaving inhale, grabs the control yoke. It’s a bitter joy that she learnt her lesson, starts spitting out orders to MZ-3846; it was a honest mistake, Hux didn’t check the weather either, keeps forgetting that planets _have them_ , had no time to—he’s the one who should’ve been choked. He goes after Ren as if to tell him this, _I take full responsibility_ , he thinks it at Ren’s back when the walls come crumbling down around him.

Ren spins on his heels, reaches out and Hux is prepared to be punished, both by Ren and the universe, the walls are pushing in—the storm is tearing the shuttle apart, how did nobody think of checking for a sandstorm, Hux is standing there with his chest heaving—he can still breathe—and it dawns on him, slowly, that Ren is not doing anything to him. That the walls are staying in place. Floating. That everything is still in one piece.

Ren, with his hand extended, is keeping the shuttle inact.

Hux gasps, relieved, shocked, overjoyed, something in between, and—of fucking course, _aroused_ —of course Hux is kriffing—

_crushing_ —

on his co-commander, while their shuttle is—

literally crashing, and—

“Reaching ground level!” the pilot yells, breaking the spell, although Hux’s heart still feels two times bigger, and two times heavier, a dead weight in his chest as he gets hold of a handrail above his head, and shouts an order.

“Activate the deflector shields and prepare for impact!”

His voice reverberates through the craft, they’re zooming through the storm, the ground is coming towards them at an alarming speed—then the world twirls and twists, there’s dust and lighting, and they—land.

They land as softly as a feather, even though they should’ve plunged into the dunes, crumbled into pieces, melted the sand into glass,  but Ren just—puts them down.

Softly.

Safely.

They’re out of the sandstorm’s way and they’re mostly okay.

And Hux—well—Hux thinks he might be in love with him.

In other news, the stabilizer is out and the hyperdrive is broken.

*

The ship is an unsalvageable wreckage. Hux can relate. He instructs the astromechs to wipe the navigation system clear, remove every trace that could lead back to the Order, while the troopers try their best to save the equipement. Ren is agitated, hood pulled over the mask, he’s pacing the breadth of the shuttle like a brooding shadow, comes to hover over Hux who’s completing an inventory of the damage.

“We need to go on,” he says.

“I’m holding an itemized list of why we can’t.”

“The light is getting dimmer.” Hux reflexively glances at the shattered viewport to squint at the blinding sun, so Ren elaborates, “The Force signature.”

“Is it Skywalker?” Hux asks.

Ren is silent.

So Hux just has to—wing it, it seems, abandon protocol and give Ren what he asks for, and wouldn’t that be a delicious thought in any other circumstance, but now, he just wishes Phasma was there, not back on the Finalizer, because ordering troopers around is so _not_ his job, but fine. Fine. Ren did, technically, save his life.

He sends a platoon to Niima Outpost with the task of getting each item from his shopping list of despair, a distress beacon included, and a couple of speeders while they’re at it so they can get the operation going while the repairs commence. He stays with the squadron guarding the wreckage. All they can do is wait; the astromechs whistle mournfully while the troopers search the ruins for utilizable equipment.

Hux does his best to be useful: he organizes whatever they manage to scavenge, issues out rations of water and protein, checks in with the platoon and revises his plans, running up-and-down while barking orders and furiously typing on his datapad. There is no holonet connection. There is only heat and suffering.

Ren sits atop the ruin, supposedly meditating, but he looks like a vulture waiting for them to drop. Hux needs to get rid of his greatcoat, and considers undoing a hook on his tunic, just one, but if he’s to get heatstroke, he’d rather do it while he’s still dignified.

The sun starts to drop down the horizon, and Ren descends with the darkness. He casts a long shadow as he approaches Hux, who has given up on existence and is leaning to the wreckage, although the durasteel burns his shoulder. He wishes he could curl up and die in the shade of Ren’s bulk.

“We have waited long enough,” Ren says. “We must go now.”

Hux slowly counts to ten.

“The platoon hasn’t returned yet,” he says, hoarse, indicates west with his datapad. “Everything is closed due to the sandstorm—not a single scavenger ready to do business, imagine that. Crawled back into their holes like so many rats. I discouraged stealing, for the time being, although I must confess I’m getting—” _Desperate. Anxious._ “—impatient.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ren says, moving past him. His robes drag through the dirt, but he still looks ready to conquer. “Get me a patrol; we need to get to Tuanul tonight.”

Hux is momentarily impressed with Ren’s proper usage of terminology, then says bitterly, “How?”

Ren regards him with his head tilted. “You have legs.”

Hux looks down at himself, as if he wasn’t aware of the fact. His jodhpurs have sand all over them. “You can’t possibly suggest I walk.”

“We shall set out on foot,” Ren says, still, presumably, staring.

“Are you—” Hux hisses, then drops his voice, leans in close. “Are you out of your _mind_? We cannot brave the desert in the dark—”

“Afraid, General?”

“I’m not afraid, I’m _concerned_ by your apparent lack of strategy!”

“I have a strategy,” Ren insists.

“Care to share it? Can you explain to me why would you send high command to the enemy like a two-in-one deal? Offer me like—sacrifice—”

“You won’t be harmed.”

“You cannot guarantee that, moreover—”

“I can.” With that, Ren steps away, leaves Hux blinking in confusion as he  saunters through their makeshift camp. Hux wants to shout something vulgar after him, but realises that there’s no time: if he doesn’t follow, Ren will just go to Tuanul alone, when Leader Snoke specifically requested for him to be accompanied with an entire regiment. All he can do is order his favourite units to gear up, and rush after Ren with twenty stormtroopers, six roasters, and his greatcoat around his shoulders. 

They are off to a horrendous start.

He’s composing a strongly worded mission report as he tags behind the patrol, resentful, hugging his torso and trying to keep up the brisk pace. The treacherous sand holds him back, makes him stagger and wobble, and every step is torture. He wasn’t made for this terrain, he’s not dressed for it, none of them are—the troopers all but glow in the twilight, and the black bundle of Ren is evanescent like a mirage.

_You said I was going to be safe,_ he thinks; pushes the thought away, tries to keep his mind empty—but if he’s not thinking anything, he’ll be focusing at the rapidly dropping temperature and the endless miles ahead.

_Are you cold?_ He hears a voice in his head, and nearly jumps out of his skin. It sounds like his own voice, which is just so, so _wrong_.

_Is that you, Ren?_ he thinks back. He’s staring at the trooper’s backs, who drag on through the desert with backpacks, and he cannot even spot Ren for a moment. He seems to be one with the darkness.

_Yes._

_In my head._

_Yes. Are you cold?_

_Of course I’m cold, it’s getting cold_.

_Tell me when it gets too much._

_I can manage the weather_ , he broadcasts, offended, and hurries ahead to prove a point—all it earns him is breathless panting and a sharp ache in his side.

The night settles fully in two hours, and the ache dulls. New pains began: his skin crawls as sweat dries on his sunburnt skin, the only reminder of heat as his teeth begin to chatter. The desert night is cold in a way he never expected—it seeps into him and chills his bones, but still lets him feel the warm weight of his greatcoat. It’s uncomfortable and irritating, but makes him reconsider Ren’s offer, _tell me,_ as they press on endlessly and the cold gets overwhelming and immense, and soon: the only thing he knows.

“How’s the light,” he asks weakly when they stop for a brief break. He lost track of time; loathes to look back at their footsteps, it seems like they’ve made no progress, they’ve been walking forever, the desert is vast and Tuanul is nowhere.

“It has gone out a while ago,” Ren says, spying the horizon. He sounds so casual, so unconcerned that Hux can’t help a bark of helpless laughter.

_We won’t find anything._

_We’ll die here, we’ll die on the way._

“Should we head back?” he proposes, even though he hates the idea, he hates it, turning around and—

“We’ve come too far,” Ren says. It sounds like a prophecy through the vocoder. Hux follows his gaze (where he supposes he’s looking), watches the featureless landscape spreading out, dark dunes like frozen waves, the foam of moonlight, and thinks of drowning, and giving up in similar ways. His little army looks defeated: their armour is heavy, it wasn’t designed for hiking, and the added weight of weapons and tents must make it all the more unbearable. Hux’s thoughts linger on the  tents, then he scolds himself, straightens his back and takes the first steps.

They thread on, and he can’t feel his toes anymore, but his ankle is definitely present, rubbed raw by his leather boots, which happen to be quite new. The chill isn’t going away, so he has to do the unthinkable and _use_ the earflaps of his tactical command cap. His mouth is dry, chapped, although they had the foresight to bring water; it is food they lack, and although his diet has never been overly indulgent, he’s thinking of cakes now, and ripe fruits, starving, dizzy. The troopers don’t complain, but they slowed down, and groan in unison when the wind picks up and pushes at them.

“Sandstorm?” Hux mutters, almost hopeful. 

“Just a gust,” Ren says, takes a few step, halts. Looks back behind his shoulder. The troopers follow him still, but Hux is standing in place, shivering. He’ll move in a minute. He’ll catch up with them, provided he’s not frozen. He wants to tell this to Ren, but he stopped, and is thinking about something. “We’ll camp here,” he announces.

“Don’t be absurd, we still need to reach Tuanul,” Hux says, even though he knows it’s impossible. It’s too cold, too dark, and the village is too far; they are ill-prepared, and this joke of a mission went to hell the minute they dropped out of hyperspace.

“The mission is no longer time-sensitive,” Ren reminds him.

Hux rubs his dry, irritated eyes, feels ready to cry. “In that case, the wisest thing would be to wait for repairs, regroup and attack.”

“No,” Ren says gently. “We’ll set out at first light, whether the repairs are finished or not. I came to the conclusion that the Force-signal might have weakened because the user is presently unconscious, therefore there is no point pursuing it any longer tonight. It’s cold, besides.”

“Right,” Hux mutters, “but should they wake and escape before we reach them—?”

“They won’t. They’re bound to this place. It’s feasible to assume I’ll pick up their signature again, once they rise and the weather is not this merciless.”

“You cannot be certain?”

Ren emits a sound that vaguely resembles a chuckle. “The Force flows in mysterious ways. It’d be arrogant to pretend I can predict its movements.”

“Oh yes, and you’re anything but that,” Hux says under his breath, and walks away from him; the troopers take it as a sign that the argument is settled, and begin unloading their burden while Ren stands and splutters.

“It’s a favour to you, General!” he calls after Hux. “You’re exhausted and freezing!”

“Yes, we all are!” Hux shouts back, turns to him and points a finger at the direction of Tuanul. “Still, we could soldier on, so I don’t need some sorry excuse about the mysterious ways the Force—”

“It’s true!” Ren says. “I cannot feel the signal any longer, I tried my best to feel it once again—”

“Will you ever? Wouldn’t it make more sense to turn back right now, if we might not find anything, come next morning?”

The trooper nearest him stops packing and eyes the tent through the helmet’s visor as if Hux had a point.

“I can’t know!” Ren yells, and Hux is—a bit ashamed of himself, for making Ren admit it in front of their soldiers, putting him on the spot like that. Ren must sense his regret, because his posture relaxes somewhat, but he still storms off to sit in the moonlight and sulk. It’d be childish, if it wasn’t for his dark rage, that terrible power that threatens to be unleashed; what level of control it must take—what mastery—to keep that in check. Hux cannot help but be resentfully impressed whenever he sees Ren like this, and he doesn’t think any less of him when Ren grabs his lightsaber and makes the equipment suffer for his moods, although he knows he bloody well should.

Hux is so far gone he’d probably cheer for Ren for any evidence of strength or competence; inwardly, anyway—he wouldn’t be able to refrain from a cutting remark. At this point, it’s an act of self-defence.

“General Hux, sir, permission to speak,” ZT-6711 comes up to him, helmet tucked under his arm. Hux gives him an exasperated smile.

“Yes, ZT-6711?”

The trooper looks uncomfortable, and avoids eye-contact as he says, “I regret to report that apparently in our hurry my unit neglected to bring a second single occupancy command tent, so we only have one at hand, sir.”

“That is quite all right, I can sleep anywhere.” _Can’t_. Doesn’t matter.

“The only other available accommodations are the barrack tents, sir,” ZT-6711 explains, indicating the camp. The troopers erected three barrack tents, which are capable of housing ten troopers; at a respectful distance, there is the geodesic dome made for commanders, small but comfortable. “My unit is ready to give up their space so you may have the tent for yourself, sir.”

“That won't be necessary,” Hux says, still eyeing the commander’s tent. It has far better technology than the barracks; it’s not heated, but the thick walls are better at keeping the chill at bay, and at least it doesn’t reek of plastic. “I won’t have an entire unit sleep under the open  sky just for my benefit. I can share.”

The problem of course, is with whom. Banishing everybody from the barracks is out of question, but the idea of letting his troopers see him vulnerable and unguarded is just as detestable; not to mention the informal implications—they should never see him out of his uniform. It’s strictly against protocol. Ren is his equal—not only in rank, but in height as well, and he’s three times his mass. They’d have to sleep quite—close to each other.

Hux swallows around a lump in his throat.

“You might want to make a similar offer to Commander Ren,” he says, hoarse. He starts marching towards the dome as if he were sleepwalking, pulled in by the temptations it offers. He doesn’t register ZT-6711’s answer, nor the other troopers mulling about.

The dome almost blends in with the sand; he’d be safe and sound there. He needs to crouch down to unzip the door and peek inside. It’s nowhere spacious, but it should be able to fit two adults, unless Ren decides to take ZT-6711’s proposal; he probably will, the selfish hermit he is. Hux will have this tent all to himself. To his tired eyes, it looks like a luxurious hotel (how he imagines them; he’s never been to one.) He cannot wait to lay down and cozy up in a sleeping bag. He’s not on the field often. The barbaric circumstances have the nostalgy of youth to them, an oddly pleasant reminder of bootcamp and his teen years. He’s smiling as his gaze searches for the sleeping bag, vaguely wondering if it’s the same murky colour he’s used to. He’s still smiling when he finds it rolled up and waiting.

_Something is wrong here_ , his sluggish mind suggests, but he’s too weary to realize what it is. He goes to his hands and knees, ready to climb right inside.

“I suppose we’ll be sharing,” he hears Ren’s voice behind him.

He freezes.

Of course.

He’s spending the night with Kylo Ren.

And there’s only one sleeping bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warnings:** canon-typical abusive childhood mention / brief allusion to missing Jedi Ben Solo being kept as a sex-slave somewhere (of course, that’s not the case) / explicit fantasies involving typically dub-con situations (interrogation, blowjob as favour, disinterest); however, Hux makes these consensual in his head / fantasy about Ren killing a third party who’s pursuing Hux in his imagination / entertaining suicide as a possibility / Hux thinks Kylo might Force-choke him and he's okay with it
> 
> There's a moodboard for chapter 2 basically everywhere, including [twitter,](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1073594593671811072) [pillowfort,](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/254958)and the abandoned warehouse that is [tumblr](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/181109442156/reach-out-and-touch-faith-chapter-2-well-now)
> 
> On [dreamwidth](https://forautumn.dreamwidth.org/1013.html), you can find an interview Ktula made with me, where I answer question's like when did Hux's attraction to Kylo start, what's up with his toys, and the like
> 
> The chapter title is from the [Pink Floyd song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8RbXIMZmVv8) I was listening on a maddening loop while writing the second half of the chapter
> 
> [Ktula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula)'s Kylo chapter will be up next Friday, 20 December~!


	3. The Gap Where We Meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylo can’t look away from the mere suggestion of the curve of Hux’s ass through his greatcoat. 
> 
> (He swears that he saw Hux twitch when he came into the tent.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings are at the end of the chapter.

The mission is a failure. The mission is a failure, and Kylo should feel like shit. Snoke will make Kylo feel like shit when he returns, and it’ll be better for Kylo if he pre-empts that, returns contrite and exhausted and wallowing in his own failings.

The thing is—he doesn’t feel bad about it. Not with the way things are going.

It’s hours later, now, and Kylo still feels it. He feels the headache pounding behind his eyes, the crust of blood on his upper lip where his nose bled and then clotted as he pulled the ship back together with nothing but the power of the Force coursing through his veins, and he feels the sand inside his boots, grinding into his sock, and he feels, more acutely than all of that, the place where Hux’s bare wrist brushed against his gloved fingers. The light of the projected map had reflected back onto Hux’s face like a hologram, and Kylo’s gloved fingers had very nearly slid inside Hux’s glove, and Kylo does not feel bad about it at all. Not then, and not now, when Hux is on all fours in front of him, hands on the rolled-up sleeping bag.

Kylo can’t look away from the mere suggestion of the curve of Hux’s ass through his greatcoat.

(He swears that he saw Hux twitch when he came into the tent.)

“Sharing,” Hux says, repeating the tail end of Kylo’s sentence, the word coming out of his mouth as though he’s entirely unfamiliar with the concept.

“There is only one command tent,” Kylo says, and the vocoder hisses and spits like he’s got sand in it, which he probably does. He’s got sand everywhere else.

Hux sits back on his heels, scowling, peers back over his shoulder at Kylo. “I am aware,” he says tersely. “I was previously informed. I’m shocked that you didn’t take the troopers up on their offer to vacate one of the barrack tents for you.” He gestures up to the covered geodesic dome above them. “It would have been more spacious.”

Kylo blinks at Hux behind his mask. Hux’s hands are on his thighs—both of them, likely, though from this angle, Kylo can only see one, a thin sliver of skin visible at the wrist—the same skin that Kylo had inadvertently brushed with his gloves earlier in the day, when they were both pointing at the same place on the map. It was fate, it had to be fate—fate or the Force, the Force telling him that inviting Hux was the correct move, that this was the clarity he had meditated on last night, kneeling in front of Vader’s mask until his knees ached, just looking for some kind of clarity, some kind of a sign, some kind of—

—well, he was looking for this. Hux, on his knees, in front of him. This, exactly this, but with some kind of—some kind of resonance attached, something in the Force that would tell him that he was doing it right, was making the right choices.

(The light has gone out, and it’s gone out for a reason, hasn’t it? And isn’t the reason that they are supposed to be here? He and General Hux, in a tent, together? Isn’t this what the Force wills?)

Kylo sighs heavily, reaches up and starts unwrapping his cowl.

“There’s no point,” Hux says tetchily. “There’s only one sleeping bag.”

Kylo swallows, and it doesn’t clear his throat, so he remains silent. Longs, suddenly, for the ability to rap his saber on the frame of the dome, once for yes and twice for no, but with his luck, it would ring horribly, vibrating their eardrums like they’re inside a bell. “It doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you,” he eventually manages to grit out. He can feel the dried blood on his upper lip cracking as his mouth forms the words.

He shakes the cowl out, tucks it behind one of the support bars, pulls his hood back, and detaches the cape, hangs it up too.

(He’s standing in a small pile of sand, now. He should have done this outside; Hux will hate him for it. He can feel the irritation reverberating from the general, can feel the slight pain points coming from Hux’s fingers digging into the palms of his own hands. It fucking hurts and aches inside his chest, to know that Kylo is making the wrong choices this time too, a second chance that he’s somehow managing to squander before they’ve even made any progress.)

The surcoat comes off next, and then his undertunic. There’s more sand underneath every single layer even though he’s had everything on the entire time, even when he was boiling alive at noon. Thank fuck he hadn’t finished sewing the midcoat yet, or he probably would have passed out or puked in the midst of the heat, and wouldn’t that have made a lovely impression on Hux?

( _Another_ lovely impression.)

He smells okay, miraculously. Must not have been able to sweat with how karking hot it was when they’d crashed. The long-sleeved undershirt stays on, then. Pants stay on too. Gloves, mask.

He can probably take off his boots.

He bends over, accidentally makes eye contact with Hux as he does. It’s awful—Hux’s face is tight, teeth sunk into his lower lip, colour high. Nails digging into his palms through his gloves.

 _Stop staring_ , he wants to say—but he doesn’t want Hux to stop, so he doesn’t say it. If this is what Kylo would have received if he had been visible on the holocalls they used to have, then that’s fine, he deserves to receive it now. He deserves to be hurt by it.

(Where is his _sign_?)

His gloved fingers keep fumbling on the buckles of his boots. He cheats with the Force, slides the buckles undone and then holds the heels of the boots steady as he steps out, left then right, and stands, in his socks, on the tent floor. Tries to use the Force to sweep all the sand to the edge, but his focus crumbles the moment that Hux speaks, and half the sand slides to the edge of the tent, the other half staying exactly where it is on the ground at his feet.

“You may as well get dressed again,” Hux says. His gloved hands twitch on his thighs.

“Why,” Kylo asks. _This is our time, this is our time to heal the estrangement between us, this is uninterrupted time that the Force has given us—_

Hux gestures sharply at Kylo’s person without actually looking at him. “Presumably _this_ is a secret of some sort, as it’s the first I’ve seen of it in the year I’ve known you, and I’ll have to call in a trooper shortly.”

“This is a command tent,” Kylo says, staring at Hux. His connection to the Force has gone all fuzzy. “You can’t—”

“Well, I must,” Hux says, abruptly cutting him off. “There’s no bootjack.”

“This is a command tent,” Kylo repeats, droning it out through the mask. His chest is clenching, and something is going white-hot behind his eyes. “No troopers in the command tent.”

Hux bites his lower lip, steadfastly not looking at Kylo. Exhales heavily through his nose. “I can’t get my boots off myself, Ren,” he says—as though it’s Kylo’s fault, somehow, that somebody had fucked up and there’s no bootjack here.

(No bootjack, and only one command tent, and only one sleeping bag, and you wanted a sign, you wanted—)

“I’ll do it,” Kylo says.

Hux stares at him.

The white-hot feeling behind his eyes starts to fade. “I’ll do it,” Kylo repeats. “The troopers are all off-duty, they’re probably drinking—”

“I’ll have you know that my men—”

“—don’t want to disturb them, I’ll take off your boots.” He doesn’t want to break the sanctity of the command tent. He _can’t_ break the sanctity of the command tent. If this is a sign, if this is what he’s been looking for, then no one else can enter, and neither of them can leave, they have to stay here, bound by the Force, until they figure it out, until they reach some kind of a resolution.

“You’ll have to straddle my leg,” Hux says flatly. “Face the tent wall. Bend over, grasp the heel of my boot in your gloves. Pull up, gently, to free it from my leg. And then repeat it on the other side.”

“I know how,” Kylo mutters, and then he focuses, uses the Force to press a sharp breeze along the lower half of the tent, sweeping all the sand from the floor to the edges.

Hux shivers, tries to cover the movement by pulling off his cap. It doesn’t matter, Kylo can feel the echoes of it in the Force. Hux’s hair is matted, a little, underneath the cap—whether he’s managed to sweat in this weather or it’s just a result of his hair product being rubbed at by the hat is another question entirely. He takes a step back and braces himself on the frame of the dome, sticks his leg out straight, daring Kylo to ignore him—

—and Kylo crosses the room, easily stepping over Hux’s leg. “Straddle my leg,” he says, his mimicry of Hux’s accent odd and empty through the vocoder. “Face the tent wall. Bend over, grasp the heel of the boot in...in my hand.” He could do this entire procedure with the Force, but he doesn’t _want_ to, so he reaches down with his gloved hand and picks up Hux’s leg and—

— _oh._

_Oh, there it is._

_The sign._

His hand is warm, his body is warm, his chest is warm. Everything is warm. Hux’s leg drawn up between his own is so solid, Hux’s body so—so real, even when there’s layers of fabric between them, and he can hear Hux’s heartbeat, in sync with his own, can hear Hux breathing, can feel absolutely everything, stretching out in the galaxy with the Force, can even feel the little pinprick of light where the Force-user is sleeping, their mission target, finally back at last—

Hux twitches a little, and Kylo takes a choking breath through his mask, stuttering it through the filter.

“Pull up,” Hux says, strained. “Lord Ren.”

Kylo does as he’s bid—pulls up and out, Hux’s leg rising and the boot starting to loosen right before it gives and slides off Hux’s leg—

—and oh, Kylo is _achingly_ hard, a lapse in control that sets his heart pounding and dries his mouth out until it’s no different from the desert surrounding them, all his awareness rushing inward as he tries to tamp it down, to get control of himself again, to focus on the here and the now, Hux’s leg in his hands, Hux’s boot coming free—

—it doesn’t help.

Kylo sets the boot down, lets go of Hux’s leg which stays up for a moment, even once Kylo has consciously loosened his grasp of the Force, before finally sinking down to the ground again.

(Maybe Hux didn’t notice.)

His breathing is echoing in his mask.

(Please let Hux not have noticed.)

There’s another boot.

There’s another boot, because of course Hux is wearing two of them. He always wears two of them.

(Unless he’s in that robe.)

Kylo swallows. He wants to scream. He hasn’t seen Hux in the robe in nearly a year, and he still remembers every single detail of the fucking thing, he still remembers—

Behind him, Hux clears his throat. Slides his other leg between Kylo’s legs, lifts the toe of his boot off the floor.

Kylo bends down and picks up Hux’s leg. Hoists it up between his own, marvelling at how easily Hux’s leg lifts, as though Hux himself hardly weighs anything at all, as though he could put his own leg back behind his—

“Today,” Hux says in a hoarse whisper. “If you would.”

Kylo exhales heavily, wraps his hand around the heel of Hux’s boot, and applies steady pressure until the leather releases from his leg and the boot gradually eases off. He forgets to let Hux’s leg go when he bends to set the boot down, and Hux’s socked toe brushes Kylo’s chest, and Kylo is so naked—two layers of fabric between them, Hux’s sock and Kylo’s undershirt the only things preventing their naked skin from touching—that it takes him a few breaths before he remembers to let Hux’s leg go.

Kylo aches with it. He doesn’t know what it is. He’s never been so affected by anything in his life. He puts one gloved hand on his chest, then tugs his glove off and settles his bare hand on his undershirt, tries to settle himself by listening to his heart, inside and out, focus on it with the Force until he calms.

“Thank you,” Hux says. He sounds composed, and so Kylo risks turning around, and is completely flattened by the expression on Hux’s face.

Hux has run his hand back through his gelled hair, and a chunk of it has fallen loose from the severe style, obscuring part of his temple. His nose is sunburnt, his cheeks windburnt or just coloured, and he’s staring at Kylo’s chest as though it’s been opened up without Kylo’s consent, his ribs flayed open, exposing his organs to Hux.

Kylo looks down. His bare hand is still over his heart, and for all he knows, this is some kind of an insult on Hux’s home planet, some kind of a grave mistake, something that Kylo will have to atone for for the rest of his life.

“So, you are human,” Hux says.

Kylo stills. “I have always been—”

“I never could tell,” Hux says conversationally, and it’s such a casual and intimate utterance that it pierces right through Kylo’s chest, putting a splinter in his heart.

“I thought you knew,” Kylo says, and the slight lift of Hux’s pale eyebrows is casual, again, and it reminds Kylo of what they used to have, a sudden pain that strikes on the end of the splinter Hux has planted there, shatters the whole organ into pieces.

“I did not,” Hux says. “You aren’t exactly known for being—a _complex_ communicator.”

Kylo opens his mouth to snap out a retort— _I am plenty complex, I’m brighter than half your officers, you have listened to my mission reports, you have heard my complaints about the inefficiencies here, you were at my meeting literally this morning—_ and then he catches, without meaning to, a quick glimmer of something at the front of Hux’s mind, the slightly shimmery edges of an empty bed, tinged blue as if from a holocall, and Kylo suddenly realizes what it is that Hux is thinking of.

“I’m human,” he grits out.

“There were betting pools,” Hux says, still casual. Still tearing Kylo’s chest to shreds.

“I hope you’re happy at the result,” Kylo snaps.

“Take off your other glove,” Hux says, lifting his chin.

“Take off yours.”

“Mine?”

Kylo swallows. “Yes.” _You had them off yesterday_ , he wants to say. _You had them off and you were standing right there when I landed, and I wanted—well. I._

“It’s cold,” Hux says.

But the thing is—it’s not cold. Not in the tent. It’s warm, and crowded with the two of them in it. Kylo’s shoulders are hunched forward, trying to compensate for the curve of the dome behind him, and the way that he always feels too big for all the spaces that he enters, too wide, too heavy. Nothing like Hux, who is at the front of every crowd without any effort at all, who always escapes from the train without having to shoulder people aside. Hux fits here, fits perfectly, and Kylo does not.

 “Take off yours,” Kylo repeats, stubbornly.

Something lights up in Hux’s eyes, and his mouth twists into a smirk. “Do it _for_ me,” he says, in a voice that isn’t quite his command voice, because it’s pitched much lower and quieter. Like _there are no long-term side-effects of the program_ and _expose yourself to me_ and _is that you, Ren?_

He could have done it without thinking—the Force is so bright right now, static under his skin and pathways lit up in his brain that are usually docile and stagnant—and if he’d done it without thinking, then they could have laughed about it afterward. But Kylo doesn’t do it without thinking.

He very deliberately makes eye contact with Hux through the visor, and uses the Force to tug both gloves off sharply, at the same time. He hovers them in the air a moment, and then just when Hux starts to reach for them, tugs them into his gloved hand, and then shoves them in his pocket.

It’s petty. It’s so ridiculously petty, and the apology is already on the tip of his tongue because he never should have done that—Hux deserves better than that, Hux deserves to have his gloves pulled off carefully with Kylo’s bare hands, Hux deserves to have his hands warmed between Kylo’s own, Hux deserves—

Hux has stepped right forward into his space. He’s very nearly touching Kylo’s chest—and then, before Kylo has even parsed how _close_ Hux is to him right now, Hux is even closer, and his bare hand is hovering just over top of Kylo’s, and Hux is—

—Hux has closed the distance. His bare hand is pressed onto Kylo’s bare hand, which is still pressed over his heart.

Kylo cannot breathe.

“Give me your other hand,” Hux says.

And, stupefied, Kylo does as he says. He doesn’t know if he should watch Hux pulling his glove off, or if he should watch Hux’s face—but Hux stares into his mask the entire time, and Kylo cannot break eye contact, even though he knows Hux can’t tell where he’s looking.

“There,” Hux breathes as he slides the other glove off. He keeps staring at Kylo’s mask until the glove is entirely off—and then turns his head, slightly, to look at Kylo’s hand. “Human on this side too.”

“Yes,” Kylo says. “Human everywhere.”

“Mmm,” Hux says. “No cybernetic parts?”

“Not yet.” He swallows, his throat dry.

“Ah,” Hux says.

Kylo swallows again. Hux’s bare hand is on his, and they’re just—they’re just standing there. Together. He feels the Force everywhere, all through his entire body, feels the _whole_ of the thing where he usually only feels parts. He’s never felt so alive in his life.

Hux’s hand twitches on his, and Kylo leans into it. He’s conscious of the sound of his breathing through his vocoder, the twitch of Hux’s pulse under his skin, the beating of his own heart under their hands. He reaches for Hux with the Force, lets it flow over him and around him, pulling Hux in with his mind because he’s too intimidated to do it with his hands and—

 Hux clears his throat, steps back.

Kylo tries to remember how to speak.

“I, uh,” Hux says. His fingers twitch on Kylo’s and he pulls his hand away, closes his fingers over his palm, and puts his hand by his sides.

“Are you...are you okay?” Kylo asks. It sounds so hollow coming from the mask. He feels stupid.

Hux blinks back at him, eyes wide and slightly reddened from the sand and the wind driving it into their faces all day. He looks so different without his cap on.

(He looks like he used to look, back when Kylo used to call him at three in the morning.)

“Why wouldn’t I be,” Hux says, and it’s like a question he’s asking himself.

“It was a long day,” Kylo offers.

Hux’s cheeks colour, and he turns away. “Nature of the job,” he says. “We’ll, ah. We’ll get some sleep and continue onward in the morning.”

“Right,” Kylo says. “Sleep. Yes.”

“I’m, er,” Hux says, shifting. He looks at Kylo sidelong.

Kylo can feel the warmth coming off him in waves, like Hux is a fire that Kylo can warm himself at, and that’s all that Kylo wants to do. It’s been a terrible day, and this is...this is...

“Yeah?” Kylo asks.

Hux sighs, looks down at his hands. “I just need to…”

 _Tell me something like what you used to tell me_ , Kylo thinks, so hard that Hux would be able to hear it if he had even a hint of Force sensitivity. _Tell me something like it’s three am. I’ll tap my saber on the wall for you, Hux tell me—_

“I need to powder my nose,” Hux says suddenly.

The words _I’ll come with you_ nearly exit Kylo’s mouth, before he realises he doesn’t have any idea what Hux is actually doing. He covers the near mistake by exhaling heavily, the mask translating it into static—which is great, because it makes him sound like an idiot, and this is the most that Hux has talked to him in months.

Hux puts his command cap back on, un-clips the earflaps and fastens them under his chin. He takes a step back from Kylo, and then abruptly turns and walks to the entrance of the tent. Two steps, then a crouch that pulls his jodhpurs tight and Kylo turns away—and by the time Kylo turns back, he’s gone.

Kylo feels the withdrawal of Hux’s presence immediately, like the entire tent has gone cold. He exhales heavily, tries to breathe regularly. Looks down and realizes that he still has Hux’s gloves in his pocket. Puts his hand on them, and then looks across the tent and realizes that Hux’s boots are still sitting next to the chair, which means Hux is out there bare-handed, in his socked feet, and Kylo is...Kylo is here.

It’s fine. This is fine.

Kylo reaches his hand up to run it back through his hair and bounces his fingertips off his helmet instead, curses quietly and shakes his hand to get the sting out. Jumps on the balls of his feet to try and calm himself down. Hux is fine. He’s just—stepped outside for a moment. In his bare feet. In the middle of the night. On Jakku, which—Phasma is right, it is just Jakku, but also—what if something were to happen to him?

Hux’s boots look so _strange_ standing there empty like that. They’re still perfectly shaped to his calves, and it’s something that Kylo probably shouldn’t be thinking about, but his boots are just—there. Void of Hux, and somehow, still beautiful.

He’s probably fine. He doesn’t need Kylo to go after him.

But it’s not going to hurt Kylo to just...reach a bit. Gently.

Kylo reaches out, past the tent, feeling out where Hux is—there. Heat and warmth layered over the core of calm that Kylo usually uses as a beacon. He’s walked a ways off, is standing with his back to the tent. Both his hands are cupped around his mouth, and he’s blowing on them to keep warm, thinking something about—something about the troopers, some nagging irritation that’s bothering him, something about _discovery_ and _secrecy_ and some dark hulking shape that he’s—

— _oh_ , that’s Kylo. Hux is...Hux is thinking about Kylo. Standing on a sand dune in his socked feet, blowing into his bare hands to warm them, and Kylo should really just—bring him his boots and his gloves, because Hux would appreciate that, Hux would—

Hux’s right hand goes down to his jodhpurs, his fingers fumbling at the clasp, his hand reaching inside—

Kylo pulls back as quickly as he can, cheeks burning with shame. He shoves Hux’s gloves back into his pocket, forces himself to turn away from the empty boots. Hux had left to relieve himself. Of course that’s what he was doing. Of course. And Kylo shouldn’t have intruded, and he shouldn’t have— _fuck_. He paces a tight circle inside the tent, trying to figure out what happens next. Hux’s hands are cold, he felt that acutely, but Kylo doesn’t—he doesn’t actually want to give the gloves back. He wants to keep them, he wants to press them up against his face, he wants to—

(But what if Hux _wasn’t_ relieving himself, what if he was reaching down there for...other purposes? What if he was doing that now, alone, on the sand dunes in the middle of nowhere, just so that he wouldn’t have to do it here, in the tent which he was supposed to have all to himself, except now Kylo is intruding?)

“—sand in my karking _socks_ ,” Hux snarls as he comes back into the tent, crawling in through the door and then immediately tugging his socks off his feet. “Absolutely disgusting, planets are awful.” He throws his sock down, turns his attention to his other foot and starts hauling that one off as well.

Kylo is transfixed. Hux has space-pale skin and cute toes, and the bone of his ankle is just barely visible. There’s a blister on Hux’s ankle, and his feet are—elegant and graceful and—

Hux looks up at him in the act of brushing the sand off the bottoms of his feet.

Kylo looks away. His heart is pounding in his ears. He can’t think. He can’t look at Hux.

He counts to twenty.

The tent is silent.

Kylo counts to fifty.

“It’s crisp out,” Hux says conversationally.

Kylo turns around. Hux is digging in his pack, studiously not looking at Kylo.

“The wind isn’t bad though,” he continues. He pulls out a small container of sanitizer, squirts some out and rubs it on his hands.

Kylo breathes, and doesn’t say anything. He’s mesmerized by the movement of Hux’s hands against each other, the sharp scent of antiseptic. The mask filters the worst of it out, but a hint of it is still there, and Kylo craves the rest of it, the whole scent, absolutely everything, but to do that, he would have to—

“Yes?” Hux asks.

Kylo looks up at him sharply. Hux is holding out the bottle of antiseptic, and it’s either look at his bare hands, which were recently touching his—or looking down at the floor, which means seeing Hux’s bare feet.

“Come on,” Hux says. “Unless you’re heading out too.”

The silence stretches out far too long.

“I should,” Kylo says, eventually. Long after it has become awkward.

It’s not a graceful exit—Kylo has to brush entirely too close to Hux to get out the door of the tent—and he staggers a bit as he straightens outside the tent, now that he finally has all the room he needs to pull himself up to his full height, roll his shoulders back to work out some of the tension he’s been carrying.

The wind is starting to pick up, and, like Hux said, it’s cold. Kylo’s not used to having his bare hands exposed, much less to be outside in only his pants and his long-sleeved shirt. He takes a couple steps away from the tent before realizing this is the same direction Hux had gone, and he immediately turns around, heads in the opposite direction, his socked feet sinking into the sand.

(He finds it comforting, being planet-bound. He doesn’t have the words to explain it to Hux. Not yet.)

Kylo walks far enough away from the tent that he’s not anywhere near Hux or the troopers, and then reaches out with the Force just to check—and there it is. Not the light, but the strong sense of where it used to be. That’s fine. He’ll be able to find that again tomorrow.

(The Force is so much stronger right now than what he is used to—he’s reaching further and faster than usual, and with pinpoint accuracy that he usually has to struggle for, but it’s here, at the tip of his fingers. Everything, at the tip of his fingers, except for the thing that he wants most of all—)

He reaches back, in the direction he had come. The troopers are a murmur of warmth on his left, and Hux is a burning fire on his right, and though it would probably be good for morale if Kylo got his gear back on and took a walk through the trooper camps, he just—he just doesn’t want to.

Kylo reaches up and unlatches his mask. Pulls it off, lets the cold desert air blow across his bare face for a moment before licking his fingers, and scrubbing them underneath his nose to clean up the dried blood that had crusted there from when he’d landed the shuttle. He passes his hand over his hair, checks that his braids are still neat.

(It’s possible that he’s misinterpreting the signs. It’s possible that he’s seeing things that aren’t here. He should get guidance from someone, to make sure that he’s on the right path—but he doesn’t want to. His connection to the Force is strong right now, tingling under his skin. He just wants to see what happens.)

Kylo puts his mask back on, re-latches it. Relieves himself, squares his shoulders, and turns around.

He’s going back to the command tent.

He’s going back to Hux, and everything is going to be fine.

This is fine. Kylo’s training is solid. He is chaste. He is focused. He is disconnected from the needs of his body, he is in control of the physical requirements of his body. He can use the Force to delay all bodily functions, including this. He pissed because he _chose_ to piss, but he could have delayed it for hours. For days.

He can let his desire for Hux burn through his body, consecrating everything, and he can abstain. This is a test. This is a test, and nothing more, and Kylo is not a failure. Not anymore. He pulled together an entire _spaceship_ today, he prevented them from crashing, he can do anything. Absolutely anything.

He crouches and unzips the door to the command tent, crawls inside. Zips it back up with the Force as he looks up and—

“Oh,” Hux says. He’s standing there in pajama pants which are slung—

Kylo swallows.

—so low on his hips, and his shirt isn’t even—isn’t even on his torso, it’s halfway up his arms, unbuttoned completely, hanging loose. Hux’s chest is bare except for his dogtags, his skin perfect and unmarred.

“I thought I would have more time,” Hux says, his voice pitched oddly. “Sorry. I mean—not sorry, but—”

Kylo swallows again.

“Sorry,” Hux says. The odd tinge to his voice must be—insincerity, because he hasn’t made any motions to actually put his shirt on. Or take it off. Or move. Or do anything, really, other than just...stand there.

“It’s fine,” Kylo says slowly. And it is. It’s very fine. Hux is—

—it’s fine. It’s good. This is. This is good.

(Kylo is burning up from the inside out.)

Kylo looks around the tent, trying to desperately find something to comment on. Something that isn’t—the way the light dangling from the top of the dome is reflecting off Hux’s skin. There’s really nothing in the tent, though. Hux’s boots, still perfectly shaped to his calves. Kylo’s boots, which have fallen over. He absently straightens them with the Force, keeps looking for something to—

“You opened the sleeping bag,” Kylo intones, having hit upon the one thing in the tent which has changed since he left. “You spread it out...nicely.”

“I do that,” Hux says dryly.

“No wrinkles,” Kylo says—but Hux doesn’t respond.

Kylo turns his head slightly, looks side-long at Hux through the visor. Hux is buttoning the shirt up now, fingers deft and careful on the buttons. They’re official First Order pajamas—officer ones, black with a red logo on the left hip, and then again on the left chest pocket. Kylo has similar ones packed in his bag—or, at least, he has the pants packed in his bag, because the pants just barely fit, but the shirt doesn’t fit across his chest, especially not when he’s been going to the gym so much lately trying to keep everything else contained, trying to keep his life under control, trying to—

“You should get changed,” Hux says casually. “You can’t sleep in that.”

“I can,” Kylo says reflexively.

Hux raises his eyebrow, looks pointedly down at the one sleeping bag, unzipped and laid flat on the ground. “Whatever shall we use for a blanket? It’s cold out. I’m afraid I’ll freeze.” He kneels down on the floor of the tent. “And you can’t,” he says. “Sleep in that.”

 _I can,_ Kylo wants to argue—but, he doesn’t say anything. Maybe Hux is right. Maybe he should sleep in his pajamas. He never does. But maybe it’s meaningful that he puts them on tonight. Maybe this is what the Force wills. Maybe this is the sign that he’s looking for. Maybe this is how things are supposed to be.

(Maybe he has to hold his hand to the fire, and prove that he won’t be burnt. He’s done it before, literally—maybe this is the metaphorical version of the same trial. Maybe this is all the will of the Force, like the beacon in the darkness which had winked out at exactly the right time, leaving them too close to turn around, but too far to press forward—and Hux will understand, eventually. He’ll have to. If this is Fate, Hux will understand.)

“I can’t get undressed with you looking at me like that,” Kylo says slowly.

Hux rolls his eyes. “How else shall I look?” he asks.

“Away,” Kylo says.

Hux exhales. “Fine,” he says tightly, standing back up and turning around so that he’s facing away from Kylo. “Fine, I’ll just—are you happy now?”

“Yes,” Kylo says—but that doesn’t fix the tight set of Hux’s shoulders, or the way they’re gradually pulling up close towards his ears, or the way that his entire demeanor has changed and that’s not what Kylo wants, that’s not what Kylo wants at all, but he’s got nothing to give to Hux, nothing to make it right, nothing to smooth it over…

Hux brings his hand up and adjusts his hair, even though it’s already perfect, and Kylo aches for him.

“Do you want to use my cloak?” Kylo asks.

(He feels it in the Force, the way that Hux initially stiffens, and then the curiosity that curls out from him gradually, like a wisp of smoke, softening the set of his shoulders and the angle of his body. It’s good. It’s right. It’s what _should_ be happening.)

“As a blanket,” Kylo clarifies. “So you’re not cold.”

“...that could work,” Hux allows. He takes a couple steps toward where Kylo’s cloak hangs on the frame of the dome, bringing his narrow hand up and shielding his face when he has to turn slightly back toward Kylo. “You’re awfully quiet for someone who’s changing,” he remarks.

Kylo can hardly breath. Hux’s other hand is carefully tugging his cloak out from the place Kylo had hung it, and Kylo mentally marks the place that Hux’s hand is so that he can put his own hand there, later, check the fabric for any remnants of Hux’s warmth. Then Kylo ducks his head, busies himself with digging around in his bag until he finds the pajama pants he’d stuffed there.

Hux’s pants, slung low around his hips, are artful and elegant. For Kylo, the same style is practical—if he wears the officially issued FO pajamas at his natural waistline, the way they’re supposed to be worn, his dick is outlined lewdly even when it’s flaccid. Giving himself enough space to not look like a complete mess requires the pants to be so low that the hair growth from his last wax is very nearly visible. He has to just hope that Hux won’t look at him.

(He’d have waxed again if he’d known that this was going to be a test.)

He faces away while he strips off his long-sleeved shirt, digs his crop top out of his bag and pulls that on so at least his nipples are covered, even though it does nothing to cover his stomach. His arms are bare, his stomach is bare, and when he turns back, he feels raw and exposed under Hux’s gaze.

“I thought you were turning around for this,” Kylo says steadily, voice flat through the vocoder.

“Oh, was I?” Hux asks. He’s lying down on the sleeping bag now, has spread Kylo’s cloak out so that it covers—

—oh, so that it covers both sides of the sleeping bag. The place where Hux is, and—and the place where Hux isn’t. The place where Kylo will be.

“You cannot possibly wear that to bed,” Hux says, and for a moment, Kylo thinks that he means the crop top.

“The tops don’t fit me,” Kylo mutters.

“Not your top,” Hux says, gesturing with his other hand at his own face. “That...whole thing. You can’t possibly wear that bucket while you sleep.”

“Not while I sleep,” Kylo agrees woodenly. He raises his hands to the latches, but he can’t make himself undo them. He can’t make himself take it off. It feels like a finality, of some sort, like a decision that he can’t quite commit to, like something that he can’t name—

“I’ll turn around,” Hux says, and his voice is gentle. “I won’t look.”

“Okay,” Kylo says hoarsely.

He waits until Hux has turned, and then he presses his fingers to the latches, depresses them simultaneously.

Reaches out with the Force and extinguishes the light hanging above them so that it’s dark, pitch-black, the heat-glow of Hux’s body through his visor the only thing visible in the tent. Hux’s body is warmest under his arms, down his torso and between his legs and—

Kylo takes off his mask, his vision immediately darkening to nothing. The air in the tent is cool on his face. He holds the mask between his hands, unwilling to let it go—and then, for security, he takes it with him as he approaches the sleeping bag, kneels down next to it.

He reaches out with the Force again, taps once on Hux’s forehead with something that will feel like a finger.

Hux makes a small noise of surprise. “Come in,” he says, hoarsely.

 _Roll over_ , Kylo says, shallowly, right into Hux’s mind.

There’s a faint pulse of surprise, and then irritation. A waft of air toward him as Hux turns around, as though—

—Hux had been holding the cloak out with his arm, making a space for Kylo to crawl into, except Kylo told him to roll over, and now that space has closed.

Kylo sighs, sets his mask down next to the bed. Waits for Hux to stop moving, and then carefully crawls onto his side of the sleeping bag, underneath his half of the cloak. Tries to match his breathing to Hux’s so that it’s less obtrusive. Makes sure that none of his body touches Hux, that there is at least an inch of space between them at all times, slightly more than an inch in the places where Hux is warmest just to ensure that Kylo can’t feel any of Hux’s body heat. It would be easier, maybe, if he slept with his back to Hux—but if he sleeps facing Hux like this, his front to Hux’s back, he can almost, just barely, smell Hux when he inhales slowly through his nose.

Hux smells of hair pomade and laundry detergent, and slightly of sweat. It’s new. It’s—it’s human. It’s _intimate_.

(There’s something else there too, some other scent he can’t quite place. He’ll have all night to figure it out, because there won’t be any point in sleeping tonight, he’ll just have to wait. Already, he’s aching with it, with being this close to Hux and being granted so many intimacies over the course of the last few hours. It’s been an entire year that he’s been trying to put this away and forget about it—Hux doesn’t need him, Hux has never needed him, Hux has had eighty thousand people at his beck and call the entire time, he doesn’t need Kylo, he has never—)

Hux sighs, and shifts closer.

Kylo freezes. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

(He needs to calm himself, he needs to regain control. He told Snoke that he was better than this, and he is, he is—but he’s half-hard and he _wants_ , so badly, things that his mo—things that any of his teachers would have scolded him for because he’s never actually said the words to Hux, he’s never actually asked for anything, he’s never made clear what, exactly, it is that he—)

Hux shifts closer again.

Too close.

Kylo’s stomach twists, and he pulls his pelvis back, far enough that the small of his back is bared to the cold air of the tent. He hisses his breath inward, inches back inside the warmth of the cloak.

His dick is more than half-hard now. The smallest brush of Hux’s pajamas against his own, the knowledge that this is the closest that anyone has ever been to touching his bare dick completely overwhelming him, and he wants more than anything to reach down and grab his own cock, twist his hand around it roughly, shift it the fuck out of the way so that it doesn’t ruin anything, so that it doesn’t—

Hux exhales again, wiggles in closer. He’s not touching Kylo, not this time, but—but he could be.

Kylo could close the gap between them.

(This is a test.)

He swallows.

(It’s not going away. He’s not sure he can get control of it. He’s not sure that he wants to get control of it.)

 _Show me a sign_ , he thinks desperately, and he opens his mind to the Force, flings his consciousness out and lets the Force catch him, and he sees—

—he sees everything. The swirl of far-off galaxies, every single star and the constellations they form in the sky, the small dots of lights from every living being on Jakku, clustered into shithole settlements and the odd dot scattered out across the sands, and none of it matters because he’s pulling his consciousness back down to this tent, he is brimming over with the Force, lit up from the inside as it burns through his bloodstream, and he can see everything, he can see absolutely everything—

—and all he wants to see is this. The two of them, lying on an unzipped sleeping bag with Kylo’s cloak spread out over their bodies, and they’re both—they’re both glowing, somehow, like the Force is trying to tell him something. Hux’s eyes are shut and he’s breathing shallowly, and there is such _longing_ coming out from him that it’s almost overwhelming—and Kylo looks over from where he hovers up at the ceiling of the dome, and looks down at himself, eyes rolled back in his head, mouth partially open, a distinct line of space between he and Hux, and he sees it in the Force as a gap, as a gap between them that is unnatural, a space where the Force does not flow, and Kylo—

—Kylo wants.

He pulls himself back into his body, presses himself back into skin that is too small to contain him. His cock is hard, wet at the tip with pre-ejaculate, and he’s trembling, for some reason, burning up and trembling at the same time, and it’s the smallest thing in the world to close the gap between them, to press his body just a little bit closer—but he does, and Hux sighs and presses back against him, his ass pressing against the hard ridge of Kylo’s cock.

“Oh,” Hux says softly, voice full of wonder. “Oh—oh _fuck_.”

Kylo can taste blood in his mouth. He thinks he’s bitten his tongue.

Hux rocks back against him, and Kylo gasps, his hand twitching at his side. He wants to touch, he wants to touch, he wants—he wants Hux pulled back against him, he wants Hux grinding on his cock, Hux’s body pressed up against his own, wants his face buried in Hux’s hair and his hand splayed across the softness of Hux’s stomach, wants—

“Oh,” Hux says again, his ass rocking back against Kylo’s cock. “Lord Ren. I. Lord. Commander.”

Kylo can hardly think can hardly breathe can hardly move can hardly

“ _Kylo_ ,” Hux says.

Kylo shudders, his flesh prickling all over his body, his cock twitching, and everything is—wet, a bit, his cock oozing into his pajama bottoms, sweat trickling down his back.

Hux shifts as though he’s going to move away and Kylo instinctively moves his hand, curls it around Hux’s ribcage, pulls Hux back into his chest, and then—freezes.

Verbal consent. He never—he never got verbal consent, he knows, he knows, he _knows,_ why is he fucking this up—

“Once for yes,” Hux gasps, his voice shaking and unsteady in a way that Kylo has never heard it before, a way that instantly endears him even more to Kylo. “Once for yes and twice for no, Kylo, please—”

Kylo presses his head into the back of Hux’s, exhales a long, shuddering breath into Hux’s neck. Hux isn’t moving, Hux isn’t moving at all—his ass is just above Kylo’s cock and his ribs are rising and falling under Kylo’s hand, and Hux is waiting, Hux is waiting for Kylo’s response, and it would be the simplest thing in the world to just knock, once, on something, on anything, to pull his saber from his belt with the Force, knock it on the frame of the dome and ring the entire thing like a bell—

“Yes,” Kylo says, his voice coming out rough and uneven without the vocoder.

(He hasn’t spoken to a soul without his mask in over a year, and the first person in the First Order proper to hear his unmodulated voice is _Hux_.)

“Yes,” Kylo repeats, breathing it into the back of Hux’s neck. “Yes, please, I—do you consent, I need to know, Hux—General—”

(Hux is so still, why hasn’t he moved?)

“Hux?”

Hux takes a great shuddering breath, exhales slowly through his nose. Counts so loudly to ten in his head that Kylo can hear it through the Force even though he wasn’t specifically listening.

_seven eight nine_

“Is your face,” Hux says—and then he stops. Swallows, hard. “Is your face like your voice?”

“What?” Kylo asks.

_sorry sorry sorry sorry_

“Is your face as sexy as your voice?” Hux asks.

Kylo bites his lip. Forces himself not to rut up against Hux even though he desperately wants to. “I don’t...I don’t know how to answer that question. No?” He’s never thought about his face, and whether or not it might be sexually appealing. His fingers twitch, anyway, and he presses his hand harder against Hux’s ribs.

Hux sighs against him, tips his head back against Kylo’s. “May I turn around?” he asks, breathless.

“You want to turn around?”

“Yes, Lord Ren.”

“Yes, General Hux.”

Hux chuckles.

“I’ll move slowly,” he promises—and he does, moves so slowly and carefully. He lifts Kylo’s hand up off his ribs, and places it back down on his hip as he turns over.

Kylo can’t see anything, not really—it’s too dark—but then, Hux can’t see anything either.

Kylo gasps when he feels fingertips touching his cheek.

The fingers still.

“Is this okay?” Hux asks.

“Yes,” Kylo breathes.

Hux’s fingers skate over his cheekbone, trace over the shape of his nose. Linger in his philtrum for a moment before tracing the contours of his lips, and then his chin, Hux’s fingertips running from his chin down the line of his jaw to his ears.

“Lovely,” Hux breathes.

“You can’t see anything,” Kylo responds, voice wavering.

“But I would like to,” Hux says.

Kylo squeezes his eyes shut. Hux’s fingers are still on his ear, gently rubbing the lobe of it between thumb and forefinger, and it’s going to be hell when this all disintegrates, because in the light, Hux will see the ghost of who he used to be, instead of who he is now. Hux will see Ben Solo instead of Kylo Ren, and all the things that he’s done to make himself this way, all the sacrifices he’s made and everything he has willfully given up, and it’s going to hurt him so much when he exposes himself to Hux and Hux turns away from him when Kylo would give his virginity up for this, he would give up absolutely everything to Hux if only he could have remained faceless the entire time, if only he could be seen the way that he actually is, if only—

Kylo is so in tune with the Force that he merely needs to consider the concept of _light_ before it blossoms on his left hand. With a gesture, he floats it up off his palm, hovers it in the air between their faces. It’s a blue-tinged light like what they used to have on the holocalls, a faint wavering to it just for that digital effect, because if there is any way that he can make this more flattering, if there’s any way that he can lean on their earlier, long-dormant but not dead connection—

Hux’s eyes widen as the light brightens, his pupils contracting in the light and then dilating, getting darker and darker as he looks at Kylo, as he _sees_ , and he—

“There you are,” Hux says in wonder. He reaches out with his hand, runs shaking fingertips along the braids on the top of Kylo’s head.

He’s going to say it. He’s going to say Kylo’s dead name, and he’s going to ruin everything, because Kylo is looking for a sign and being addressed that way is _not_ it—

“So this is who you are, Kylo Ren,” Hux continues, his voice so soft and gentle. “I can’t believe you’ve been here the whole time. I thought you were dead, but you’ve been with me the entire time.” He flattens his palm on the side of Kylo’s face. “You are _stunning_ ,” he says.

Kylo whimpers.

“Absolutely stunning,” Hux says, his voice tinted with wonder and his fingers gentle on Kylo’s face. “I can’t believe it.”

Kylo takes a breath, tries to get control of himself. Takes another. It’s not helping. He can feel the Force blooming under his skin, is conscious of every single breath he takes, everything suddenly so _much_ , so _intense_ , so—oh, so much, it’s all so much.

“I never even imagined—I was thinking about you the other night,” Hux says, and then corrects himself. “The person you used to be.”

“I didn’t used to—I wasn’t ever—I’ve always been me,” Kylo says, awkwardly. “I’ve always been Kylo.”

“Yes,” Hux says instantly. “Yes, that’s what I meant, of course you have—did you know? That I was thinking about you?”

Kylo shakes his head, follows it up with a verbal confirmation. “I didn’t—I didn’t know.”

“I was,” Hux breathes. “It’s been a year. A year of you with the First Order.”

“Yes,” Kylo says.

“When I met you in the hangar—you had his mask, in a box. That was—that was the exact date.” Hux’s eyelids flutter shut for a moment. “It was after midnight in the hangar,” he says. “It was the day after.”

“You remembered,” Kylo says. His chest feels like it’s caving in, in the best way. “We hadn’t—we hadn’t slept yet, it was effectively...it was the same day. It counts.” _It’s a sign_ , he wants to say—but he’s afraid that Hux won’t understand.

Hux smiles, faintly, in the blue Force light. He runs his fingers along Kylo’s jaw again, and then brings them to the top button of his own pajamas.

(Kylo thinks of the holocalls, because how can he not? The holocalls where Hux would drink, and fidget with his buttons, and spread the lapels of his black silk robe wide to expose his chest, and maybe this is...maybe this will be like that. Again. Maybe this is Kylo’s second chance.)

“Do you want to see me?” Hux asks. His face is soft and gentle, gorgeous in the light. “How far do you want this to go?”

Kylo hesitates. “Further,” he says, after a few minutes. “A little further?”

(It’s like holding his hand over a flame. He won’t get burned. His connection with the Force isn’t impacted at all. He’s never felt so sensitive to it. Nothing bad is going to happen. He would feel it through the Force if it was.)

“Yes,” Hux breathes.

“Show me,” Kylo says. “Show me how you look?”

Hux arches, pushes his chest out. “Undo my buttons?”

Kylo’s hands are shaking. His fingers are too big for the buttons, and still, Hux waits. Hux is patient. Hux just breathes, and lies there, and doesn’t say anything when Kylo’s fingers keep stumbling, and it takes him forever to just get the first button undone, and then—

—Hux’s skin is exposed. It’s space-pale, gorgeous in the dim light. His collarbones are visible under his skin. Kylo wants to see his entire skeleton, see all his organs laid bare.

He undoes the second button, and then the third.

“Yes,” Hux breathes. “Kylo.”

The fourth button. The fifth. The sixth.

“Yes,” Hux says. “Yes, Kylo, yes. Do it.”

The seventh. The eighth, and that’s it. There aren’t any more buttons.

Kylo’s hands are shaking too badly for him to do anything. He uses the Force to move the pajamas out of the way, fold them back. Expose Hux’s chest. It’s perfect.

(The dogtags have slid down by his armpit, the chain glinting slightly in the light. The metal will be warm to the touch, made that way by Hux’s body.)

“Do you like it?” Hux asks.

“So much,” Kylo says. “Can I put my hand on you?”

“Please,” Hux says, arching again. “I want that. You have—big hands, Lord Ren.”

“You know that’s not my title,” Kylo says.

“I don’t care,” Hux responds. “Put your hands on me.”

It’s—it’s a lot. Kylo reaches out and flattens both his palms onto Hux’s chest before realizing how much it would be, how much it is, how much—it’s just. It’s a lot. He can feel Hux’s heartbeat. He can feel Hux’s nipples tightening under his palms. The chain from his dogtags is rubbing against Kylo’s thumb. It’s warm, just like he hoped.

“Oh,” Hux says. “I just—your hands.”

Kylo drags his hands down Hux’s chest. He can feel everything through the Force, feel every inhalation Hux takes, feel every beat of Hux’s heart. Hux’s nipples are hard underneath his fingers, and Kylo rubs at them, gently, and Hux gasps and arches into it.

(He’s never felt this powerful before.)

“It’s good, it’s good,” Hux says.

“Good,” Kylo repeats. “You’re—wow.”

“Your _voice_ ,” Hux breathes. “How do you even—”

“It’s just how I talk,” Kylo says, shutting his eyes for a moment. “It’s just…”

“Hey,” Hux says. His hand is back on Kylo’s face. “It’s fantastic,” he says. “I can’t believe you kept this from me for a year.”

“I thought it would ruin everything,” Kylo says honestly, opening his eyes again because he can’t stop looking at Hux. “I thought if I said something, it would…”

“How could it,” Hux says. He swallows, hard. “Look, can I. You said.”

“Yeah?”

“You said a bit further,” Hux says. “How much—how much further?”

Kylo closes his eyes, reaches out with—and oh, the Force is right there, it’s right there. He’s never been more connected. He’s not—he’s not losing anything, regardless of what Snoke said. He’s not getting worse. He’s not—he’s not—nothing is going wrong right now. Everything is going so, so right.

(He is loyal to the First Order. He is loyal to _Hux_.)

“Further,” Kylo says.

“Good,” Hux breathes. “I want—I want to show you my dick.”

“Yes,” Kylo says. “I can—I can have that?”

“Kylo,” Hux says. “I’ve wanted to do that for a year now.”

“Really?” Kylo asks.

“Watch me,” Hux says. He puts his hand on the waistband of his pajama bottoms.

Kylo takes a deep breath. Brightens the light he’s created with the Force.

(It’s so easy. Everything about this is so goddamn _easy_ , he could do anything right now. Absolutely anything.)

“May I?” Hux asks.

Kylo’s eyes sting.

He wants this so much.

“Let me see,” Kylo breathes.

It’s infinitely graceful, the way that Hux’s fingers close over the fabric of his pajama bottoms. He tugs once, sharply. The elastic comes down, and Hux’s dick pops out, and it’s—it’s fucking gorgeous. Pert and cute and curving up toward his stomach. There’s—extra skin there that Kylo doesn’t have—Hux is uncircumcised, and he can just barely see the head of Hux’s dick poking out of the foreskin, and Kylo can barely breathe for how adorable it is.

(This is so _different_ from what he expected—he’s seen other people naked before, this shouldn't be a big deal. Hux isn’t even fully naked—but this is the most intimacy that Kylo has ever gotten from him, and he’s greedy for it, wants everything that Hux will give him.)

“Well?” Hux asks.

Kylo pulls his eyes away from Hux’s dick, and looks up at Hux’s face. His voice had sounded confident, but now that Kylo’s looking at his eyes, he can see that Hux’s gaze is darting around, a little. Kylo projects a wave of calm at Hux through the Force, and Hux shudders a little.

“Was that you?”

“Yes,” Kylo says, softening his voice and wincing. “Sorry, I should have asked, I just...the Force is so strong here.” _I’m strong here_ —but it sounds like bragging, so Kylo swallows it back.

Hux raises his eyebrows. “Jakku,” he says, a bit like it’s a curse. “I should have known.”

 _No_ , Kylo wants to say, _it’s you, it’s just you._

Hux wriggles on the sleeping bag a little. “Would you like—what would you like to do next?”

“I want to put my hand on you,” Kylo says. “I just…”

Hux makes a high-pitched noise in the back of his throat.

Kylo waits.

Hux clears his throat. “Go—go ahead.”

Kylo reaches out, flattens his palm over Hux’s cock and presses it back against his belly. The heel of his hand is pressing against the head, and his fingers are on the waistband of Hux’s pajama pants. Hux’s entire cock is under Kylo’s palm, and it’s hot and hard and everything Kylo ever wanted. He turns his hand, curls his fingers around Hux’s shaft. (His fingers easily wrap around Hux’s width, touch back to his own palm.)

Kylo rubs his thumb against Hux’s foreskin, and then shifts his hand a little further up to cover it completely. “It’s so soft,” he breathes.

Hux doesn’t respond.

Kylo glances up at him, and Hux is staring down at Kylo’s hand.

“I can’t even see it,” Hux says softly. “Your hand is massive, it’s amazing.”

Kylo swallows, presses a little harder against Hux’s cock. It’s so hard underneath his hand, hard and hot and Kylo wants to touch it all over, wants to stare at it forever, wants to keep touching Hux forever, wants to—

—he takes his hand away, tries to remember what happens next. The rest of it will probably be quiet, everything they do they will do in silence, and he’ll miss Hux’s voice, the casual intimacy. It’s so important that this go right, it’s so important—

“So,” Hux says. “Further?”

Kylo looks down. Hux’s dick is still hard, sticking out the top of his pajama pants. Hux is lightly running one of his long, elegant fingers back and forth on the shaft of it, the action so casual that Kylo feels the intimacy of it right in his chest, kicking the air out of him and taking his breath away—but it doesn’t matter, because he has the Force. He doesn’t need to breathe right now. He can just watch.

 _Yes_ , Kylo says, although he forgets to open his mouth for it, and the feelings just washes out from him in the Force—and Hux doesn’t flinch this time, just absorbs it and smiles, and it’s everything Kylo has ever wanted. It’s Right.

(It’s _Pure_.)

“May I see you?” Hux asks.

“Oh,” Kylo says, feeling like an idiot. “Yeah, uh. Sorry, I.” He tries to mimic the graceful way Hux had revealed himself earlier—gripping his pajama pants at the thigh, and tugging them down, but whereas Hux’s cock had popped right out, all Kylo manages to do is expose the base of his, the rest of it still trapped next to his thigh.

“ _Fuck_ , Kylo,” Hux says.

“Sorry,” Kylo says. “I just—it’s in the way all the time.” He shifts on the sleeping bag, uses one hand to pull down on his pajama pants, and the other to haul his erection out into the open.

Hux makes a strangled sound, and shudders.

“Is it...” Kylo asks—and then he looks down at Hux’s cock, at the fluid beading on the tip of it, and he’s completely forgotten what he was going to say, all the words evaporated right out of his chest.

(Their hearts are beating in sync, the Force adjusting Kylo’s so that it matches Hux, and Kylo has never felt so close to another human being in his entire life.)

“It’s great,” Hux says hoarsely. “Never, in my wildest dreams…”

“You dreamt of me?” Kylo asks.

Hux puts his hands on either side of Kylo’s face, presses his forehead up against Kylo’s. “Of course I did,” he says, his voice low and intense. “Of course I did, Kylo.”

(Kylo can feel Hux’s breath, hot against his face.)

Kylo takes a deep shuddering breath. Exhales. His hands come up without thinking, and he clutches onto Hux’s forearms like he’s drowning, and Hux is the one that’s going to pull him out.

“Oh,” Hux says. “Here, let me—” Hux shifts his body, moves closer, and then _presses_ against Kylo, grinding his bare cock up against the base of Kylo’s. “Do you like this?”

“Fuck,” Kylo says. “Fuck, Hux, I love it. I can feel—fuck, it feels amazing. It’s—the Force, and your dick, and your hands, and—it’s everything, Hux, it’s…”

“You try it,” Hux says. “Roll your hips against mine.”

Kylo grips Hux’s forearms tighter and does it, rutting his cock up against Hux’s, the head of it poking into Hux’s soft belly, and Hux _whines_ , shudders against Kylo.

“So good,” Hux says. “So good, so good.”

Kylo does it again, drags his cock up against Hux’s, presses the length of it against Hux.

“Closer,” Hux says, winding his leg in between Kylo’s, pulling Kylo’s head against his shoulder. “Get closer, get—Kylo, come here, can you just—yes, I’ve got you. I’ve—oh, hell, I’ve got you, Kylo. You’re doing so well. You’re doing so—so well, for the Order, for me, you’re—Kylo...”

Kylo opens his mouth, and Hux’s skin is underneath it. He can taste Hux, taste the dry grit of sand on his shoulder, smell the hint of soap underneath. He turns his head, licks at the side of Hux’s neck.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hux curses.

Kylo wants everything, all at once. He wants _Hux_ , he wants everything that Hux will give him, he wants everything that Hux wants him to take, he wants—

“Yes, yes,” Hux says. “That, I want that.”

(Kylo hadn’t realized he’d been saying it out loud.)

“I’ll give you everything,” Hux says. “We’ll have everything. We’ve waited this long. We have time now. We have time—let me have your hands.”

“This is so _much_ ,” Kylo whines. “It’s just—it’s—”

“We are to co-command the same ship,” Hux says into his ear, tongue licking at Kylo’s lobe. “You’ve been to your quarters. You know they’re on the same deck as mine. Move to the _Finalizer_ with me.” He moves his hands from Kylo’s face, drags his fingertips down Kylo’s chest, flattens his palms over Kylo’s pecs and exhales. “I don’t have supplies with me tonight, do you?”

Kylo shakes his head. He’s supposed to be—

“Then later,” Hux says. “Next time. Put your hand on me again.”

“How?”

“Here,” Hux breathes. “Like this.” And he takes Kylo’s hand and drags it down his own chest, wraps Kylo’s ungainly fingers around his delicate cock. “Yes, like that.”

“I need—” Kylo says, his tongue thick in his mouth, his words tripping over each other. He knows what he wants, but he just can’t quite figure out how to say it, how to get the words in the right order.

“What do you need?”

“‘There are no long-term side effects to reconditioning’,” Kylo blurts, and he can _feel_ his face go crimson all the way up to his ears, his entire body burning with embarrassment.

Hux pulls back from him a little, looks at him with wonder. “You’ve...you’ve listened to the recordings?”

“Yes,” Kylo says, too self-conscious to admit to how much, and entirely certain that the truth of it is visible on his face anyway, because he’s not wearing his mask—because Hux’s eyes are sharp and they see everything. “Your voice, it’s...calming. I needed—I needed those recordings, especially—especially right when—” Kylo shuts his eyes, puts both his hands over his face, his voice muffled by his palms. “—when I came here. You grounded me.”

“Oh,” Hux says, soft and pleased. “I didn’t know, Kylo.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No,” Hux says, putting his hands flat overtop of Kylo’s. “Thank you, for saying that.” He clears his throat. “Would it—would it help if I talked to you? Right now?”

“Please,” Kylo murmurs.

Hux carefully pulls Kylo’s hands away from his face, presses one up against his own face, and then puts the other back down over his cock.

Kylo curls his fingers around Hux, and _feels_ the sheer pulse of joy emanating from him in the Force.

“You hardly have to move,” Hux says, his voice low and soothing. “You cover me so completely. It’s exactly the feeling that I’ve tried to create with my—and you just, you do it so well. So naturally. Your hands are a work of art. Here, yes, a little more pressure—just shift your wrist a bit.”

It’s good. The directions are good, because Kylo is shaking. He’s not trying to read anything from Hux, but he’s getting waves of feedback anyway, bits and pieces of thoughts, _good_ and _so big_ and waves of arousal, and Kylo can feel sweat trickling down his lower back as he tries to process everything, tries to process what he’s feeling as well as what Hux is feeling, tries to separate himself from Hux—except he doesn’t want that, he wants to fall further in, he wants—

Hux’s hands are cold when they wrap around Kylo’s dick, and Kylo gasps, shudders, thrusts up into the tight grip of Hux’s fists. Hux has both his hands on Kylo’s cock, one on top of the other, and the head of Kylo’s cock pops through Hux’s grip when Kylo thrusts. Kylo inadvertently squeezes Hux’s cock harder, and Hux moans.

“It’s so much,” Kylo says, and he shudders again, burrows his head further down until it’s resting on Hux’s shoulder. It’s a little better from this angle because he can’t see as much, has to rely just on the physical sensations without getting the visual input all mixed up with everything.

“That’s it,” Hux says, his lips moving right next to Kylo’s ear. “I’ve got you.”

Kylo’s dick twitches, and he can feel fluid leaking from the tip of it, and it’s probably going to drip on Hux’s fingers, and it’s going to—

“Yes,” Hux moans. “Yes, Kylo. Let me help you—let me—listen to me, I’ll show you the way—”

Kylo pants into Hux’s shoulder, hand twitching on Hux’s cock, which is so hot and hard and delicate and Kylo’s terrified that he’ll break it somehow, that he’ll handle Hux too roughly. He brings his other hand down to Hux’s chest because he needs to be touching Hux _more_ , rubs at Hux’s nipple, and the resulting wave of pleasure that rolls off Hux is almost overwhelming.

“They can’t hear us,” Hux is whispering. “They can’t hear anything, they’re out there, and they have no idea what’s going on—no idea what we’re doing—no idea of the honour that I’m privy to right now, my hands on your cock—”

Kylo can feel it building in the pit of his stomach, coiling in on his guts. It’s overwhelmingly intense, and Kylo’s entire body is alive with it, his entire body working toward—working toward some kind of an end, working toward something that his conscious body doesn’t understand, that his unconscious body has taken over, that his—

Kylo’s cock pulses out more fluid, and Hux smears it around on his palms, drags it down the length of him. He’s doing something different with his hands now, something that feels like Kylo is infinitely thrusting inside, somehow, like Hux is absorbing him, like Hux is—

“Fuck, I’m close,” Hux breathes. “Shift your wrist, just a bit—short strokes, you hardly need to—yes, that’s it exactly, Kylo, let me spurt in your hand, let me—”

“I want,” Kylo says, but that’s the only part of the sentence that he can form, because he’s too overwhelmed to make anything else work, too overwhelmed by everything, too—

“Almost there,” Hux says, hands moving faster on Kylo’s cock, voice rough and desperate.

“The Force,” Kylo says. “I can share, do you want—?”

“I want _everything_ ,” Hux hisses, twisting his hand on Kylo’s cock. “Come for me, Kylo.”

His body obeys before his mind has even finished hearing the sentence, a full-body muscle contraction that curls his toes and shoots up his spine, electrocutes him with sheer pleasure. Kylo is looking into Hux’s eyes when it happens, watches those grey-green eyes roll back into his head as Kylo’s orgasm projects from his own body into Hux’s, and he can feel Hux’s orgasm start, triggered by Kylo’s own, and his mind goes completely white with it, pleasure upon pleasure upon pleasure upon pleasure, and an overwhelming sense that he is exactly where he is supposed to be, he is doing exactly what he is supposed to be doing, he has never, in his entire life, been at the right place in the right time except for right now, except for this exact moment—

“Shh,” Hux says. “Shh, shh. I’ve got you. You did good, you did so good. I came so hard, that was—that was amazing.” He’s cradling Kylo’s head in his hands again, is pressing his lips to Kylo’s cheek. “There, there. I’m going to wipe us up, alright?”

Kylo reaches up, wraps his arms around Hux and pulls him in closer. “Not yet,” he says, voice uneven and raw. “I’m still—” He shudders, pleasure still sparking irregularly up and down his body. “I think I’m still—”

“Are you okay?” Hux asks softly.

“Fuck, I think it’s still happening,” Kylo says. His foot keeps twitching, and his entire groin feels warm and heavy, fucked out and exhausted. He shudders again, pulls Hux closer.

Hux sighs against him, sinks into it, his entire body relaxing against Kylo’s. Hux is all limbs and sharp angles, that bit of softness around his tummy. Kylo takes a deep breath, trying to calm his heartrate, and—

Oh.

The entire tent smells of it. Smells of sex.

Kylo shifts, uncomfortably. “Sticky,” he murmurs.

Hux chuckles, pushes himself upright. He sits back on his heels, stretches his arms up above his head, and pulls off his pajama top. There’s—oh, fucking hell, there’s semen all up his stomach, spatters of it over one of his nipples. Droplets of the stuff running over his ribs.

It’s so—weird. Sex is—weird, and wet, and Hux looks completely unbothered by it, so maybe it’s fine, maybe this is just—maybe this is just how sex _is_ , and maybe—

“I’ll clean you first,” Hux says softly.

“You can't use your shirt?” Kylo means it to be a statement, but it comes out as a question.

Hux smiles—a small, soft thing. “I can, and I will.”

“At least clean yourself up first,” Kylo says. “I’m still lying down.”

“You’re also tense,” Hux points out. “I don’t mind, but you look like you’ll be more comfortable when you’re clean.”

Kylo shuts his mouth. Nods. Can’t find the words to explain it, because this isn’t—this isn’t an experience he has. This isn’t an experience that he’s had, not until now. “I didn’t think it would cool off so fast,” Kylo blurts as Hux wipes at him, careful strokes that cover his torso, where they were pressed together.

“That happens,” Hux says gently. “It’s alright.”

Kylo props himself up on his elbows, watches Hux gently clean out his bellybutton before moving to his own stomach, wiping his filthy shirt on his own torso.

“I don’t even know if that’s yours or mine,” Kylo confides. He’s mesmerized by it—there’s just so _much_.

“Neither do I,” Hux says softly. His teeth flash out, bite down on his lower lip for a moment. “It’s so good,” he says.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Kylo says. His face floods with heat again. “Thank you,” he says. “That was—right, for me. It was _pure_.”

Hux looks down at the wet shirt he’s been mopping at his chest with. The semen is smeared all over the fabric, whitish clear fluid marking most of the visible surface. “Was it now,” he says, smirking and looking very self-satisfied.

“It was,” Kylo insists. “Let me show you—close your eyes.”

Hux obediently closes them.

Kylo reaches out with the Force, so softly it’s like a whisper. Forms hands out of nothing, fingers out of nothing, uses them to gently caress Hux’s face. Builds legs and kneels in front of Hux, slotting his knee between Hux’s, rolling invisible hips against Hux’s thigh as he uses the Force to form lips, to gently kiss Hux with an open mouth.

“Already?” Hux murmurs. His eyes open—and his entire body stills as he stares at Kylo, who is still lying on his back on the sleeping bag, propped up on his elbows.

“Still over here,” Kylo says. He disintegrates the Force presence, exhales heavily. “That kind of control, that kind of focus—I, uh, I struggle to get that normally—but this is—this is _right_.”

“Oh,” Hux says softly. “I didn’t—I didn’t know that’s what you meant.” His eyes have dilated again, the sharp grey of them swallowed up almost entirely by the black of his pupils. “That’s, uh. That’s…”

“I’m tired,” Kylo says. “And I—my body—could you come—?”

“I’ll need a few minutes, but yes, if you want to…”

“Come lie down,” Kylo repeats. “Can you—can you face me again, let me hold you?”

“Oh,” Hux says. “Oh, sleeping. Yes, yes, I can—yeah, let me just…” He scrunches the soiled shirt up in his hand, considers a moment, and then sets it down, away from the sleeping bag and Kylo’s cape.

He still smells of sex when he crawls in next to Kylo, lies his head down on Kylo’s arm. “Sleeping,” Hux repeats. “It’s okay that I’m this close?”

“I’d let you crawl inside my skin,” Kylo murmurs into his ear.

Hux shudders, a little, and moves in closer. “I’d like that,” he says. “I’d like that very much.”

*

_Something is wrong._

_Kylo is in the throne room on the Supremacy, and he’s alone._

_“Hux?” he asks. The sound echoes off the empty chamber and into the distances—ux, ux, ux, ux, ux._

_There’s only silence in return._

_“Armitage? Are you there?”_

_He hears Hux laugh, in the distance, but can’t see him._

_“Armitage?”_

_He looks down at his hands, and they’re red. His hands are red, and there are flashes of light all around him—his mouth is stuffed full and he can’t breathe, he won’t be able to get back to Hux, he can’t—_

*

Kylo gasps himself awake. There’s hair in his mouth, there’s hair in his mouth and blood on his hands and—

—no, the blood is a dream. The blood is a dream, his hands are dry and—

—oh. Hux. It’s Hux, it’s Hux. He’s here. He’s still here.

Kylo isn’t alone.

He puts his hand on the back of Hux’s head. Hux’s hair is damp from Kylo’s mouth, and Kylo cringes, tries to flatten it out with his palm.

Even after last night, Hux is still here.

He can feel Hux’s heartbeat, synchronizes his own to it without a thought, reaches out with the Force. Hux is still asleep, and so are two-thirds of the troopers, although the other third are lying awake in their barracks, waiting for their alarms to go off. Wristbands, worn underneath their trooper armor. Hux’s alarm is embedded in his dogtags. They’ll vibrate gently against his chest in the next twenty minutes, and then again ten minutes after that, and then again ten minutes after that, and he knows absolutely everything all at once, still just as precisely connected to the Force this morning as he was last night—

“I’ll wake you,” Kylo whispers softly.

“...wish you wouldn’t,” Hux says, his voice thick and blurry from sleep.

“You’re already up?”

“No,” Hux says. “My eyes are still shut, and my alarm hasn’t gone off yet.” He rocks back a little against Kylo.

Kylo bites his lip. “Sorry,” he mutters. He’s achingly, painfully hard, even after last night, even after—

“There are worse way to wake up,” Hux says. He looks over, blinks up at Kylo slowly. There’s sleep crusted in the corners of his eyes, and his hair is standing up oddly on one side. “Did you sleep alright?”

“Nightmares,” Kylo says shortly.

“...did you want to talk about them?” Hux brings his hands up and rubs them against his eyes. “It might help?”

“No,” Kylo says. “You were...laughing, but I was...I just...I don’t. Want to talk.”

“Alright,” Hux says. He wriggles in bed, burrows a little closer against Kylo, arms wrapping around Kylo’s chest, and legs entwining between Kylo’s. “Is this okay?”

Kylo swallows. He should be better than this. He should be stronger than this.

(He should be sated, after last night. Surely twice would be too many times? He shouldn’t need Hux this badly—but he does. He really, really does.)

“We don’t have time,” Kylo says. “There’s—the mission, and there’s—we should.”

Hux presses his pelvis against Kylo’s, the faint heat of his hardon just barely perceptible through both sets of pajama pants.

“I should have been meditating,” Kylo says, wanting nothing more to rut up against Hux, and knowing, by the quality of the light filtering through the tent, that they can’t. “To...to make this go away. I should have been—I usually—I’m not very good at it, I do my best, I just…”

“Oh,” Hux says, sounding disappointed. “I suppose that’s—fine.”

“Sorry,” Kylo says again.

“It’s just as well,” Hux says. “I suppose—”

“Last night was amazing,” Kylo blurts. “I know we have to—with the mission and everything, I just—it was so good for me.”

Hux blinks at him again, his eyelashes long and red-gold and beautiful. After a moment, his cheeks pinken slightly, and he smiles, pleased. Then he cuddles up against Kylo’s chest, closes his eyes. “Five more minutes, if you would, Lord Ren.”

He’s asleep again in moments—and Kylo lies there, and watches him breathe, feeling the hot exhalations against his chest. The troopers outside are starting to wake up now, woken by the buzz of their alarms on their wrists—but when Hux’s dogtags start to vibrate, Kylo silences them with a thought.

Five more minutes.

*

“Here,” Hux says softly. He’s fully dressed already, because of course he is, and he looks _perfect_ —hair restyled, uniform buttoned up to his neck, cap back on his head with the earflaps fastened above his head. He reaches for Kylo’s cowl, takes it out of his hands. “Let me.”

Kylo lets him do it, ducks his head so that Hux can wrap the cowl around his neck, leans in close to him just to breathe in Hux’s scent. Hux smells like the desert, like the hand sanitizer he used earlier this morning, and underneath all that, a little like sex and maybe a bit like Kylo. It’s intoxicating.

“There,” Hux says a moment later. “You have my gloves, still?”

Kylo reaches down to his pockets—and there they are. Hux’s gloves.

He hands them over with more than a little regret, watches Hux tug them on, covering up his beautiful hands.

Kylo doesn’t remember the last time he felt this self-conscious. He reaches for his mask and pulls it on, latches it tight. Squeezes his eyes shut for a moment until the visual input from the mask has booted up, until he can open his eyes and see Hux through the mask, the exact same as he usually does.

With the gloves on, Hux is complete—he’s the General now, every inch of his body from his boots to his hat cloaked in responsibility. He should be out there already, ordering troopers around, looking at Kylo with disdain—but instead, he’s here, standing inside the tent, just—just watching Kylo.

“I don’t want to leave,” Kylo blurts. The vocoder flattens all the emotion out of it, but he feels the whine of it in his throat anyway. “I don’t want—I don’t want to go.”

“Kylo,” Hux says “You know we must.”

Kylo shuts his eyes, swallows. When he opens his eyes again, Hux is—Hux is right there. Hux is rising up on his tiptoes.

Hux is pressing his mouth against Kylo’s mask, kissing the respirator. When he pulls back, he is every bit the professional except for the smile playing around the corner of his mouth. “I’ll see you out there, Commander Ren.”

“Yes, General,” Kylo says.

After Hux is gone, he tugs off his glove and touches his bare fingers to his mask. The mask is wet from the damp of Hux’s tongue.

Kylo exhales, shudders. He is hard. He is aching.

He is entirely too far away from Hux, and so he pulls his glove back on, and goes to close the distance between them.

*

The sands of Jakku are endless. Life forms are clustered in small groups—more of them at the settlements, less of them in the liminal spaces between. The light is gone—or, at least, it doesn’t matter. It’s not Skywalker, that much is certain—and Kylo is relieved, because it means that he made the correct decision last night. The purpose of this trip was Hux—not Skywalker. The mission isn’t a failure.

He’s standing on a dune, staring out over the endless horizon. There is visibility as far as the eye can see—and slightly further for Kylo, because of the mask. There’s nothing to look at. He is alternating raising and lowering every tenth grain of sand in the two foot radius around his feet, just because he can. Because he can feel the Force this way, now.

“They’re missing the parts for the shield generator,” Hux murmurs from beside him. “We have everything except that. Tuanul, you think?”

“...I would rather not,” Kylo says. He doesn’t want to explain the Force-cult to Hux. It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t the mission.

(He wants to be back in the tent, with Hux stripped bare in front of him. Completely, this time.)

“Cratertown, then,” Hux says. “We’ll find someone to purchase the parts from.”

“No need,” Kylo says, after a long pause. “We won’t need to go there.”

“Well, do fill me in,” Hux says. It’s a tone of voice that Kylo would have interpreted as tart merely twenty-four hours ago—and now? Now, he just feels fond about it, the edge in Hux’s voice that means he’s upset about something. He’s upset about something that Kylo can fix.

He’s upset about something that Kylo is going to fix.

“Look,” Kylo says. He reaches out, places his gloved hand on the back of Hux’s head and turns his head slightly to the left. “Do you see that?”

Hux swallows.

“Right down between the dunes,” Kylo says.

“I don’t have macrobinoculars with me,” Hux says. “What am I looking at?”

“Right there,” Kylo says. “Scavenger.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Hux says dryly. “They’ll have the parts we need?”

“Yes,” Kylo says. “I have foreseen it.”

Hux takes a deep breath, like he’s going to argue about it—and then exhales heavily. He shifts his stance, and his upper arm brushes against Kylo’s for just a moment. “As you wish, Commander Ren,” he says.

Kylo smiles underneath the mask.

Things are going so well.

*

Things are not going well.

The scavenger is a child, for one thing. Skinny and malnourished, wearing a set of goggles that are too big for her face, and carrying a stick that she pretends is a weapon.

She won’t sell them any of her parts, for another, even though the exact parts that they need are strapped onto the side of her speeder—and if that isn’t the will of the Force, Kylo doesn’t know what is.

“I work for Unkar Plutt,” she insists, skinny arms crossed across her chest. “I won’t sell you anything independently.”

And Hux? Hux is not helping.

“Of course,” he murmurs. “Can’t break contract.”

Kylo raises his eyebrows before realising that Hux can’t see it, settles for tilting his head and _glaring_. It would take him approximately five seconds to throw the scavenger into the dunes, take her speeder, and ride Hux back to the wreckage of their ship in style, but Hux is derailing the entire thing by being _polite_ , for some godforsaken reason.

“We’ll pay,” Kylo says shortly.

The scavenger sets her jaw and shakes her head.

“Rations as a bonus,” Hux offers casually.

Kylo looks over at him. Hux isn’t even making eye contact with either of them—is just staring down at his datapad, tapping away on the screen.

“If,” Hux continues, “the parts are what you say they are.”

“They are,” the scavenger insists. “I’m good at what I do.”

“I’m sure you are,” Kylo says flatly. “If this is going to happen, we need to head back to the site.”

“I need my tools,” the scavenger says stubbornly. “Back at base.”

“I’ll accompany you,” Kylo says immediately. Be damned if he’s going to let her out of their sight, not even for one—

“Why bother,” Hux says. “If anyone needs protecting, it’s me.” He looks up from his datapad. “Lord Ren, if you would follow me, please.” He looks to the scavenger. “Do you have a datapad for me to enter coordinates?”

“I’ll remember them,” she says.

Hux reels the coordinates off without looking, and the scavenger nods.

“We should have at least taken the parts from her,” Kylo intones as they turn to leave, mask right next to Hux’s ear so that neither the scavenger nor the troopers hear.

“Would you like to argue about it,” Hux says, tapping a couple more commands into his datapad before turning it off, and tucking it into the pocket of his greatcoat.

“I’m not—”

Hux looks up at him, raises an eyebrow. “They’ve taken the command tent down,” he notes. “So there’s nowhere private to...argue.”

Kylo stares at him.

Hux is blatantly staring back—not at Kylo’s visor, not like he usually does, but at the length of Kylo’s body.

“Remember that for later,” Hux says mildly. “We’ll discuss back on board the _Finalizer_ , and you can tell me all the ways in which you think I’m...wrong.”

Kylo shuts his eyes, tries to focus. He’s achingly hard, and reaches down to adjust his cock without thinking.

When he opens his eyes, he realizes that Hux has watched that too, a smirk on the corners of his mouth.

“We should start walking,” Kylo says.

“We should,” Hux agrees.

“The troopers are waiting for us.”

“Yes,” Hux agrees. He tilts his head to the side, looks over Kylo’s shoulder. “She’ll likely beat us to the coordinates if we don’t get going.” He looks up at the sky. “We’ll be walking through the hottest part of the day again.” He rubs at the bridge of his nose, the bit of his skin that’s still pink from yesterday. “I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do about that?”

Kylo reaches out with the Force as he falls into step beside Hux. “...luggabeasts over to the west,” he says finally. “I can encourage them this way.”

Hux makes a face, pulls his datapad out again. “I’ll contact the platoon that stayed behind. They’ll get us transport from Niima Outpost.”

“You’d look good riding one,” Kylo blurts.

Hux’s cheeks go pink. “Thank you for your input, Commander Ren.” He glances down at his datapad. “They’re sending speeders to my coordinates, but we might as well get going, do our best to meet them partway.”

“But the speeders are coming here,” Kylo says. “If we move…”

Hux taps the buckle of his belt. “Tracker,” he says. “Do you not have one?”

“I, uh,” Kylo says. “I don’t know.”

Hux stops walking, and Kylo nearly stumbles over his own feet to stop too—and then Hux reaches out, hand quick as a whip, and grasps the top of Kylo’s belt, flexes his wrist and peers in behind the back of it. “No tracker,” he says. He taps a spot on the back of the belt with his gloved index finger. “You’d see it right here. I’m surprised Supreme Leader Snoke hasn’t given you one. Surely he might like to know where you are.”

It stings, a little. “I—”

“ _I_ might like to know where you are,” Hux says. “From now on.” He lets go of Kylo’s belt, taps the front of it with the back of his hand, a soft touch that Kylo feels like a punch to the gut. “I’ll have one issued to you, if you like. You can come by my quarters tonight, I’ll install it. Show you how it works. Let you see it up close.”

(His voice is getting to Kylo, and Kylo is consumed.)

“Come on, then,” Hux says. “We’d best get walking.”

*

They’re met by speeders a couple hours later. The sun has changed position slightly, so time has passed. Nothing about Hux has changed in the meantime—Kylo has memorized every seam on his uniform, every stitch on his general’s stripes. He uses the Force to brush errants grains of sand off when they cling to the fabric. He still has that glorious fine control that he’s been lacking the entire time, and it feels like he’s burning up from the inside with the heat of it, the gloriousness of having finally achieved something that he’s been struggling with his entire life, ever since he first felt the Force.

One of the perks of command—or co-command, as it were—is that Kylo and Hux each get their own speeder, driven by one of the troopers. Kylo glares daggers into the back of the trooper piloting Hux’s—Kylo is a better pilot than them, and his fingers itch with it. He wants Hux’s legs pressed against his. He wants Hux’s cock pressed up against his back. He wants Hux’s hand to casually touch against his shoulder when the speeder whips around a corner.

(Kylo needs no such stabilization, he has the Force. He has the Force, but he should have Hux.)

He’s cranky by the time he gets off the speeder back at the wreckage, made crankier by the fact that Hux is completely nonplussed about the entire thing, steps off the speeder gracefully and immediately gets out his datapad, glancing over at Kylo before pressing his gloved thumb against the screen.

“Dismissed,” Kylo barks, and the troopers all scurry to the other side of the ship, where there’s at least half a chance of them getting some shade.

“She’s on the way, then?” Hux asks, still looking down at his datapad. He frowns, tilts the screen.

Kylo paces a little closer, hunches his shoulders and positions his body so that he’s protecting Hux from the sun. He looks at Hux, and then down at Hux’s datapad. Raises his arm and puts his palm on the ship, right above Hux’s shoulder.

The shadow from his arm blocks the last bit of sunlight on Hux’s datapad and Hux sighs, visibly relaxes.

“Yes,” Kylo says, belatedly realizing there’d been a question. “Any minute now, her speeder just crested the ridge.”

“Thank you,” Hux says. He swipes his finger across his datapad to dismiss a series of notifications. “You’ve done well today, Kylo.”

Kylo tilts his head, stares at Hux.

“You should think about your reward,” Hux says, pocketing his datapad, and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Reward?”

“Oh, look,” Hux says. “There she is.”

Kylo looks over his shoulder to see the girl’s speeder cresting over the ridge, and coming to a stop in a spray of sand.

 _Show-off_ , he thinks viciously, and then he pulls himself up to his full height, and stalks across the dune to her speeder, where she’s struggling to detach parts bigger than she is from the side of it. He’s conscious, the entire time, of Hux’s eyes on his back.

*

“She’s stealing from us,” Kylo intones. He’s been watching the scavenger like a hawk for the last three hours, and what’s happening is absolutely disgusting. “Four sets of rations shoved into her pockets. A piece of insulation tucked into the back of her tunic.  No, my mistake, the insulation is going back into the ship, along with the one wrench she purportedly needed. The rations are tucked into the front compartment of the bike, up in the toolkit where we can’t see them.”

“I hope you know,” Hux says casually, still flicking away on his datapad, “that I consider this foreplay.”

Kylo swallows.

“I’m imagining your naked voice right now,” Hux says, in the same soft undertone that’s only loud enough to be heard by Kylo—and only then because Kylo is looming into his space, his mask tilted toward Hux’s head. “Your eyes. Your hair.”

Kylo looks away for a moment, up into the completely empty sky. “It’s hot out,” he says.

“You should undress,” Hux remarks. “Wear that short little top of yours, bare your stomach.”

Kylo swallows. His eyes accidentally catch the scavenger’s, and they both look away—which is when Kylo notices the cargo net on the side of her speeder is gradually filling up.

“She’s taking forever,” he says, trying to redirect the conversation back to something he can concentrate on. “And she’s stealing more rations every time. Hux. This is First Order property. She is filling her speeder with First Order property, and I could stop her heart from here, I could—”

“Have you ever starved?” Hux asks abruptly.

Kylo looks over at him.

He’s looking up from his datapad, mouth tight and eyes narrowed against the sun. His nose is definitely sunburnt. “Have you ever starved,” he repeats. “As a child. Were you hungry, Kylo?”

Kylo shakes his head. “No,” he mutters, the word coming out toneless through the mask.

“I was,” Hux says. “I won’t begrudge her some rations.” He looks back down at his datapad. “Go make sure she’s actually completing the repair, would you?”

Kylo exhales, pushes himself forward—and just as suddenly stops when something grabs at his ass.

He turns, sharply.

Hux is still staring at his datapad, but there’s a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Kylo stalks toward the entrance of the ship before he thinks better of it, and turns, heads right back to where Hux is standing. Slams one hand on one side of Hux’s head, and one hand on the other, tilts his mask so that he’s staring Hux down.

“Did you just grab my ass?” he asks.

Hux stares coolly into his visor. “I grabbed someone’s ass,” he says. “I certainly hope it was yours.”

“...it was.”

“Very well, then,” Hux says. “Go hustle the scavenger along, would you? The sooner the hyperdrive is repaired, the sooner we can leave. You can come to my office once we’re back on the Finalizer. Or my chambers. We’ll...debrief after the mission. I’ll go first, show you how it’s done. You can go afterward, show me what you’ve learned. I’ll talk you through it, the entire thing.” His eyes are glinting. “You do like to be talked to, don’t you, Kylo?”

“I do,” Kylo says softly. “Please, Hux.” He cannot even imagine the full gamut of things that they’re going to do—but they’ll have hours in which to do it, hours to strip each other naked and to actually _see_. Kylo will be able to see Hux fully, to touch Hux everywhere from his lips to his balls, to be able to run his hands down the length of Hux’s long legs, to press those legs back up by his ears or let Hux do the same to him, to lie back on the bed and let Hux do what he wants, let Hux take whatever pleasure he can take from Kylo—

Hux sighs, his voice softening. “I’d put my hand on your face if there was any professional way to do such a thing.”

“You can unprofessionally do it later,” Kylo offers. “In your chambers.”

Hux’s answering grin is tight and vicious.

Kylo forces himself to turn away from Hux, even though he doesn’t want to. He strides into the ship, catches the scavenger in the midst of trying to pry a comm unit off the wall, and glares at her for a full five minutes before she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Repair’s done,” she says. She sticks her hand out. “I want the rest of my payment.”

“You won’t get paid unless you—” Kylo frowns. There’s a sound from outside. Something is wrong. “Don’t think I don’t know about—” The sound is getting louder. “Go see General Hux,” Kylo says shortly. He follows her outside, looks up at the sky.

It’s another ship, landing not far away from where they are now. Kylo doesn’t recognize the ship—but he doesn’t need to. He recognizes where the ship is from, and that’s enough.

He feels sick.

(This isn’t the right time. This is too soon. He’s being called back too soon.)

He looks over at Hux, and Hux is frowning at the ship, and then at his datapad.

(The scavenger has taken one look at the ship landing, and has chosen to leave, starting up her speeder before she’s even properly mounted on the thing, and taking off in a spray of sand.)

“I didn’t know,” Kylo says. “I shouldn’t have been—”

“—summoned,” Hux says. He holds up his datapad. “You’ve been summoned.”

“Back to the Supremacy,” Kylo says. He’s going to be sick. His stomach is twisting, his heart is in free-fall. “Supreme Leader Snoke—”

“He has need of you,” Hux says. “Indefinitely.” He stands, and his entire face shutters over, like a set of blast doors going down. “It was a pleasure working with you, Commander Ren. I hope to see you again soon.”

“I’ll be back on the Finalizer as soon as possible,” Kylo says. It’s not a lie—but it’s not the truth, either. He knows that he’ll be on the Supremacy as long as he needs to be.

He knows that it could be weeks. Months.

Years.

(The shuttle has landed, and the boarding dock is coming down. Kylo wants to pull the thing into pieces, shatter it all. Strand all of them on Jakku just so that he never has to go back, just so that he never has to go—)

“Don’t look like that,” Hux says, softly. He’s standing right at Kylo’s elbow. “After all, this isn’t forever.”

“Isn’t it?” Kylo asks.

“Pessimist,” Hux scoffs, voice fond. He brushes past Kylo, barks an order out at the nearest trooper.

Kylo watches him go, and then turns, and strides toward the shuttle that Snoke has sent for him.

The gap between them widens, and then keeps getting wider.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Warnings:** minor blood mentions / Ren traps Hux up against the ship with his body; Hux is unconcerned
> 
>  **End Notes:** well, that happened.
> 
> There is a moodboard for this chapter, available on [twitter](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1076130276500299777), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/329537), and the [vast barren hellsite](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/181295737146/reach-out-and-touch-faith-chapter-3there-was-only).
> 
> There's an interview for this chapter over on [dreamwidth](https://ktula.dreamwidth.org/1185.html).
> 
> ktula is on [twitter](https://twitter.com/heyktula), [dreamwidth](https://ktula.dreamwidth.org/), and [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/ktula).
> 
> forautumniam is on [twitter](https://twitter.com/forautumniam), [dreamwidth](https://forautumn.dreamwidth.org/), and [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/forautumn)


	4. The Interim Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armitage Hux is twenty-nine years old, and he has a boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please refer to the end notes for **content warnings**

Armitage Hux is twenty-nine years old, and he has a boyfriend. 

(He decides that twenty-nine is the optimal age to have one.)

Hux has a boyfriend, and his name is Kylo Ren; he’s the Dark Enforcer of the First Order, heir apparent to Lord Vader, of royal descent—and the latter is not something many people know about him, but Hux does. He, who came from nothing, the unwanted child of a kitchen woman: he has a sovereign wrapped around his little finger. (And said sovereign cares about him.) Ren is a prince, a warrior, a mystic—seduced by a lowly bastard.

Hux can hardly keep down his grin.

He’s playing with the dogtags under his tunic; they have his name, rank, destination number, the key to his identity—but now they feel like a collar or a ring, something to signify that Hux, Armitage, general, HX00112, belongs to Kylo Kriffing Ren. One of these days, he’ll add Ren as his emergency contact, his next of kin, his, his, his.

Ren is on the Supremacy, somewhere in the Braxant Sector, while Hux is floating through wild space, on the other end of the galaxy, drifting away—but he can feel Ren reaching for him. Can feel it, even though he doesn’t care much for the Force (he doesn’t, but that light was nice, the one Ren offered him on his palm; how he used his occult power to undress him, caress him, how energy surrounded them like a warm blanket).

The memory of tender touches burns like bruises. Hux wants to keep poking at them: _he touched me here, and here, and here_ —he could hardly resist palming himself earlier today on a meeting where the lights were down and no-one was looking. He’s stuck on the bridge  and fiddling with his dogtags, wants to bite down on them, send a picture of it to Ren, biting on the dogtags and tunic lewdly parted—Ren doesn’t mind his pale chest, the thin flesh, he kissed it and—

Touched him, yes, Kylo Ren stroked his cock—it was so good, so good, so good—

Hux is giddy and euphoric, but keeps a straight face. Counts back the minutes until he can call Ren. Ren looked crestfallen when they parted, as if it was for forever, but they can—do it, they can—

(Hux has a plan.)

Ren likes him and he lets Hux like him back. He was sweet and afraid, and what a face—Hux should’ve kissed his pouty, plush, _obscene_ mouth, but Ren was so overwhelmed (he made him like that, it’s to his credit, Ren let him do it, let him do anything).

Hux’s cock is aching and his nipples are permanently peaked now, apparently, but he keeps his cool, he keeps still, calculates. Thinks of Ren in the morning, warm and clingy. Lets himself linger on the memory while revising stormtrooper training scores. Thinks of sex, everything he wants to share with Ren. To hell with distance. They just need the right technology. Hux will touch himself tonight, exclusively for Ren’s pleasure, and will make him do the same, take out that big, fat cock, present it for Hux to see, jerk it until he’s near to tears. (He has such an expressive face. He’s _cute,_ which is something Hux never expected.)

It will be fun. They’re going to have so. Much. Fun.

* 

“I want to stay celibate,” Ren says.

“Oh,” Hux mutters. Now he feels stupid for putting on his silk robe, and mussing up his hair, and starting this call from his bed, with his crate of toys within arms reach, but he assumed—yeah, he made assumptions.

He swallows.

Ren’s holo sits cross-legged in the air. He looks exhausted, and gorgeous, and—they don’t have to fuck. Ever. Hux would be happy—would settle for massaging his tense shoulders. And tucking that stray lock back behind Ren’s ear without making him flinch. He’s in training clothes, high-waisted trousers, braces, combat boots, gloves and a tank top. Hux would like to see him exercise. He’d be fine with—a platonic camaraderie, if Ren changed his mind, or if there was never a promise of a liaison, and Hux misinterpreted—well, everything—again—but then—

He’d still need Ren’s permission to wank, because he’s hopelessly attracted to him. He can’t help it. Ren’s hair is in a ponytail and his big ears are peeking out. (And he thought that the _mask_ was bewitching.)

He wasn’t ready.

Ren has an eight-pack.

He’s _seen_ it.  

“That’s okay,” Hux says, voice breaking.

“Just until we meet again,” Ren hastens to add.

Hux sucks in a breath, squeezes his eyes shut. Fuck, he’ll punch Ren. He’ll punch him in his handsome stupid face. Kick his perfect monster cock, just fucking—step on it—(Would Ren enjoy that? When he currently wasn’t being celibate?)

“I want to—in person. I want to. I want to wait until—you’re here.”

“I’d love that,” Hux says. Ren looks nervous; he needs reassurance, so Hux will just—comfort him, after he’s done imagining beating the crap out of him. Ren wouldn’t even feel it. He’s made of muscle and iron. (His thighs are still soft. So are his cheeks.) “I’d be happy to give you my virginity when we meet next, even though it might be—weeks.”

Ren blinks.

“I thought you did,” he says slowly.

“What?”

“I thought you—never mind.”

“No—no, let’s talk.” Hux adjusts his robe, sits up tall and looks at Ren with a tad of worry. “You do know what sex _entails_ , right? How an—intercourse looks?”

“Yes, of course,” Ren snaps. His hologram flickers. “Of course,” he repeats, softer. “I know, I—had an excessive education. It was my—choice to be celibate, and it was an _informed_ decision.”

“Grounded in religion,” Hux assumes.

Ren nods, and there’s a knot in Hux’s stomach. There it is. The issue of faith. A supposedly very human principle he could never kriffing grasp. It might make matters complicated in future.

“I was not forced to be pure,” Ren explains. Hux shudders at the word choice, but bites his tongue. _(Did I defile you?_ he wants to ask. _Was it filthy, what we did? Do you hate me for it?)_ “Skywalker’s cult wasn’t like that.” _(You can hate me just don’t stop talking. Don’t stop talking to me again—)_ “It was—” He halts.

“It must be difficult talking about it,” Hux acknowledges.

Ren smiles at him, sheepish, relieved. “Yeah. The point is—I, ugh. I have read the sacred texts. And the Old Masters talked about—no attachments, and—I thought there must be power in that. So I wanted to be strong, and. It resulted in...that.”

“That?” Hux repeats, confused.

“Me uh, having my own followers and all of us sworn to—”

“Oh.”

“—stay pure. And it worked. Master Snoke approved. But I met you.”

 _I ruined it,_ Hux thinks. _It was sacrilege._

_And you enjoyed it._

_Oh, you did._

Ren looks away. “I never felt stronger,” he confesses, “then with you in my arms, with—”

Hux clicks his tongue. “Did you now?”

“It hasn’t faded away. I’m connected to the Force through you, and our connection, and it’s—intoxicating. All that vigour. That might. The power I always knew was my birthright.”

“If it gives you such a kick,” Hux asks, carefully, “sexual energy, or whatever is the correct term, why do you keep denying it to yourself?”

Ren looks up and meets his eyes. “Because if I started touching myself now, I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

Hux makes a choking sound. Ren has the audacity to shrug.

“And I want to make it special. The next time I come.”

Hux takes a moment to compose himself, rubbing at his temple (and decidedly not at the place he needs rubbed, he doesn’t have Ren’s consent, but fuck, once this call is over—) and slowly, Ren’s words register. He frowns, and gives Ren a once-over, gaze lingering on his lap, but it’s impossible to tell if he’s—affected.

“You never had an orgasm before?”

“Just in my sleep.”

“You never touched yourself?”

“Is that weird?”

“Never even tried, or you know, accidentally slipped a hand down your trousers—”

“How does one masturbate accidentally?” Ren asks, flushed. Hux can feel his own face heating up. There’s warmth in his belly and oh fuck, oh fuck, oh _fuck it._

“I don’t know, you’re the celibate.”

Ren licks his lips and he has probably no karking idea that he’s doing it, and what it does to Hux. “There was a sink,” he says, voice low; he _sounds_ like sex, how did he never—

“Oh stars, you fucked a sink.”

“No, I—there was this sink, okay, in the—in the communal bathroom, and it was made of stone, it was rigid and cold and just the right height after my growing spurt, so when I was washing my hands it would press to my dick. At occasions, I found myself enjoying the sensation more than I—should have.”

“And that’s it.”

“That’s it. Yeah.”

“Oh, Kylo,” Hux says softly. Watches Ren squirm. He’s embarrassed but enjoys being flustered (that’s something to remember for later), there’s a thrill, yes, it’s so clear—his face is so damn expressive, Hux would know all his secrets just by the twitch of his lips, the shine in his eyes. “It’s alright, I get it now. I don’t expect you to do anything you’re not comfortable with—we’ll just take it easy, shall we?”

Ren visibly relaxes. Damn the Force. _This_ is power. This is what power is. Being able to comfort the most dangerous being in the galaxy. To placate and pleasure him. Have him give a shit.

“So I can trust you,” Ren says. “You won’t be mad if I don’t touch myself for you.”

“Why the fuck would I—” Ren frowns at that, so Hux goes on calmer. “Why would I be mad at you? I’m happy with whatever you want to give me.”

“And I can ask for things?” Ren says, almost a demand.

“You can ask for things,” Hux confirms.

“Because I wouldn’t mind. That is. I don’t expect _you_ to follow _my_ rules, and I’d like to watch you—I. If you wanted to.”

“Watch me do what?”

“Come.”

Hux is pale now. His blood has left his head. “You want me to wank for you after this conversation.”

“You don’t have to,” Ren says with a touch of defensiveness. “You haven’t told me yet what you want. It’s just that if you wanted to—masturbate, I would—I can feel your frustration, I can—not—stop thinking about your cock.”

“I think I can recall yours as well.”

“I don’t mind if it’s not erect. I’m curious how it looks when it’s—”

“Too bad, Kylo. I’m fucking hard for you.”

Ren’s mouth is open but he can’t speak for a minute. “Are you?”

“Want to look?”

“Yes, I told you.”

“Pushy,” Hux mutters, pleased. He lets his hand slide down his chest, slow and teasing, fingers slipping under the silk. At this point, it’s muscle memory. He’ll be the first to admit that he can get rather—eccentric. He always enjoyed putting on a show, even for himself. He always wanted the best he could have.

And now he has a stunning boyfriend for an audience.

The silk pools over his lap; he fists it, but makes no move to lift it, even though Ren moans for the grand reveal. He moans so prettily.

“You never watched holoporn, have you?”

“Will we spend the rest of gamma shift discussing my lack of experience?”

“Does it bother you?”

“No, but I would rather get to the point.”

“Well, I’d rather make it last. Will you let me be in control of what follows?”

Ren takes a moment to consider this, which Hux appreciates. He rewards him by stroking his dick through the silk.

“Yes. Anything.”

“Careful with that ‘anything,’ darling. I asked you if you’ve ever seen holoporn to assess your familiarity with eroticism—which is something quite different from technical knowledge. I don’t want to do something that might shock you.”

“I want you to show me your dick,” Ren says, heated. “Like you did in the tent. I liked the look of it, I liked how it—felt.”

“How do you plan to participate this time?” Hux asks, stroking himself steadily through the silk. Predictable, easy movements. Nothing sudden. “We already established you won’t touch yourself.”

“What else can I do?”

“Keep talking, for example. Let me walk you through it—teach you a few things”

“I’d love to keep talking to you,” Ren says, which is a blessing, because his voice is so damn husky Hux _needs_ to hear it.

“You already discovered the sensation of different textures and temperatures on your own, clever boy. The silk is cool and soft on my cock. That’s why I chose this robe.”

He has no idea if he sounds even remotely erotic. He loves to make noise and loves dirty talk, but he never had the opportunity to have a conversation while doing this. He lets actions speak for a moment, and whispers, “Allow me to demonstrate” as he hooks the robe’s thin belt around his erect cock and pulls it free from the mess of silk.

Ren nearly chokes on his spit.

“You said nothing sudden.”

“Was it too much?”

Hux has a firm grip on the belt. The loop is a bit tight around his chubby cock, but he makes no move to adjust it.

“It’s beautiful,” Ren says, makes a gesture—oh stars, he zoomed in on the holo, didn’t he? Hux keeps still, but can’t help a gasp as Ren’s eyes roam over his body. “You’re so beautiful, Armitage—I’m uh—it’s wet now.” Ren grabs his bulge and roughly shoves it to the side, making a face. Hux cannot breathe. Ren manhandling his own cock will be the death of him.

“It must be rather uncomfortable,” he says, a strained whisper. He cups his balls, rolls them around in his warm palm. They—well, they fit well, they’re taut, round, and small just like the rest of it, so he can’t imagine what is it like to carry that monstrosity around that Ren has in his trousers, that is far bigger than he ever imagined, and he thought he was _being generous_ —

“It’s always in the way,” Ren complains, adorably whiny.

“What kind of underwear are you wearing?”

“What they gave me.”

“The standard boxers?” Hux asks as he eases a finger under the loop. Tugs at it; his cock bobs and slams against his belly. Ren’s lips part to a gasp, but he does not speak.

Hux gets rid of the belt and spreads his legs, back pressed to the headrest. He should tone it down, or Ren will come untouched. His pupils are blown so wide that they appear almost black on the holo, and his hands, pressed to his knees, keep trembling.

“I will get you some nice ones,” Hux says.

“Huh?”

“Underwear. Something that fits your size and lifestyle.”

“Thanks, that’s—that’d be—shit, can you touch it?”

“How would you like me to touch it?” Hux tries to sound lazy but it’s—raspy, he’s giving himself away, but he—can, can’t he? He no longer has to deny the desire he feels for Ren, it’s no longer a filthy little secret. Ren wants him. Ren wants him back.

“Like you touched mine. It was so good, I—”

“I used both hands,” Hux says, and demonstrates, a fist over a fist. He gives a bashful smile to the camera. “See? Can’t quite do that to myself, I’m afraid.”

“Just—pump it with your right, I want to—it’s so cute because the head peeks out of the foreskin when you do it—”

Hux laughs at that, and Ren looks a bit hurt for a moment. He’s probably one of those people who thinks one shouldn’t find sex funny. Hux squirms to show that it just means he’s enjoying himself, allows his head to loll back. His hand moves faster, and faster.

“You want me to play with it?” he asks, smiling, and pinches the underside of his shaft. He licks his free hand—he’d normally spit, but this will be a lot to process as it is—makes a wet circle with two fingers, and pushes down on his cock with a long, throaty moan.

He looks at Ren’s hologram from under heavy lashes.

“Be right back,” Ren rasps, and the connection breaks.

* 

 **Commander Ren** : im writing from the fresher

 **General Hux** : Are you quite all right?

 **Commander Ren** : affirmative im fine now

 **General Hux** : I think there’s a lesson to be learnt here, Kylo. Said lesson is not to leave someone hanging with their dick out for twenty minutes.

 **Commander Ren** : 18

 **Commander Ren** : im sorry

 **Commander Ren** : was overwhelmed

 **Commander Ren** : nearly creamed pants

 **General Hux:** Apology accepted. I trust that it won’t happen again. That is, we’ll make sure that you don’t get so close to the edge that you feel the need to hang up and run away. I’ll let you know that it makes your partner quite worried, not to mention rejected.

 **Commander Ren** : i couldnt think i panicked

 **General Hux** : I’ll need your help to make sure you won’t consent to situations that elicit such response. Here’s what we’re going to do in future. Read carefully, I’ll expect you to remember.

 **General Hux** : Whatever we do, you can use the words “slow down,” “pause” and “stop.” After you paused or stopped what I’m doing, you can excuse yourself (with words or gestures) and leave if necessary, but don’t terminate the call until you got a clear response from me. Is that understood?

 **Commander Ren** : yes

 **General Hux** : I’ll also want you to check back when you’re ready to talk or send a nonverbal sign. I appreciate that you reached out this time. It’s considerate of you, and shows that you care.

 **Commander Ren** : thank you sorry i wont forget

 **General Hux** : Excellent.

 **General Hux** : Now, back to current matters. I’d like to end this on a positive note so you don’t feel like you messed up.

 **Commander Ren** : i did tho i did mess up

 **General Hux** : Mistakes are a useful learning experience. I want to reward your willingness to learn from this. One option is that I finish what we started and send you a video.

 **Commander Ren** : yes i want that

 **General Hux** : We can negotiate other options.

 **Commander Ren** : no i want a video i want u 2 come i could practice pausing n stopping nd it wouldnt have consequences

 **General Hux** : For precaution, I might only include my torso and face in the frame. You could see the movement of my hands and my expressions, but nothing too explicit. I’ll be up for an hour after I sent the video, so you can check in with me. Also, I might want to ask for some blackmail material in return so it’s a fair bargain.

 **Commander Ren** : uve seen my face

 **Commander Ren** : uve got plenty of blackmail material

 **Commander Ren** : only send a vid if u trust me

 **General Hux** : Don’t take it personally. I do trust you. But you must understand that such a recording puts me in a vulnerable position. I’d appreciate if you could send me a selfie.

[ _Commander Ren forwarded a picture_ ]

 **General Hux:** I’m glad to see that you’re smiling :-) 

 **Commander Ren** : r u sure u wont show your cock :((

 **General Hux** : I think that’d be for the better. Ask again tomorrow.

*

 **Commander Ren** : mmm good morning

 **Commander Ren** : are u hard

 **General Hux** : A fine morning to you, too.

 **Commander Ren** : though u might be hard bc penises r often erect in the morning & if urs was u could send me a pic if thats ok bc im ready i wanna see it please

 **General Hux** : I happen to be flaccid, but let’s see if I can arrange something quick before my shift. I’m certainly glad to hear you’re feeling more at ease. I also think that a still image is a good idea.

 **Commander Ren** : yeah im a genius

 **General Hux** : Have you slept well, genius?

 **Commander Ren** : u could say that

[ _Commander Ren forwarded a picture_ ]

Hux stares at the screen, dream gone from his eyes. Those are Ren’s abs, and the V of his hips—his modesty is only covered by a severely soiled sheet.

[ _General Hux forwarded a picture_ ]

 **General Hux** : Look what you made of me.

 **Commander Ren** : ahh 

 **Commander Ren** : a tent to match our lovetent ❤️

 **General Hux** : Someone is in a jolly mood.

 **General Hux** : No wonder, after shooting that load.

 **General Hux** : You’ll get an explicit image if you tell me how it happened. In detail.

 **Commander Ren** : well

 **Commander Ren** : i had a nocturnal emission

 **Commander Ren** : i’d normally jump up n shove the sheets down the laundry chute

 **Commander Ren** : not today though

 **Commander Ren** : the scent reminds me of the afterglow. it’s fainter but it’s the same.

 **Commander Ren** : u were covered in it

 **General Hux:** May I ask what brought forth this lucky event?

 **Commander Ren** : was dreaming of us

 **General Hux** : What were we doing?

 **Commander Ren** : making love

 **Commander Ren** : i was inside of u

 **Commander Ren** : u were making faces like in the vid making the same noises

 **Commander Ren** : + i could feel it. tight heat

 **Commander Ren** : u were so wet 4 me

 **Commander Ren** : i was inside of u so deep as if we were one body as if i belonged

[ _General Hux forwarded a picture_ ]

 **General Hux** : Good boy, you do belong.

 **General Hux** : We are one.

 **Commander Ren** : wanna fuck u armitage i wanna cum inside i wanna fill u up let it drip out ur thighs were slick with it in my dream

 **General Hux** : ...Fuck, Kylo.

 **Commander Ren** : i want it

 **Commander Ren** : wanna be able to do it when we meet

 **Commander Ren** : 1st day

 **Commander Ren** : wanna take u to bed & make love 2 u all night long

 **Commander Ren** : will u help me be ready

 **Commander Ren** : i want to make it good 4 u i’ll be so good for u i practiced w/ the vid will u help me

 **General Hux** : Yes, darling. Anything you want.

 **Commander Ren** : careful w/anything ;)

 **General Hux** : I mean it.

 **General Hux** : What would you like me to do to myself tonight?

 **Commander Ren** : do u have a dildo

 **General Hux** : Do I ever.

 **Commander Ren** : will u lick it for me as if it was my dick

*

The bi-monthly General’s Council is always held on the same day; Hux thinks nothing of it when he heads to the meeting, well-prepared and neat as always, but no special effort put into his appearance. He should have known better.

He sits by the luminous table in a secluded conference room, and activates the projectors so the holograms of his fellow officers appear. They’re all older than him, by at least two decades; serious, weary faces surround him as he turns on his datapad. Most of them still use the old Comp600 model, and look at his sleek little machine with judgement. Or maybe he’s just imagining it. Maybe they don’t care.

He glances up from the screen to greet everybody and begin the meeting as chair, but his tongue refuses to work when he spots Ren at the head of the table.

Shitting hell.

So Snoke couldn’t make it. That’s no wonder. He tends to send a representative. Often, it’s Ren.

He should’ve expected this.

He should’ve.

“Good morning and all hail to the Supreme Leader, it’s a pleasure to be here,” he manages. “Let me start by reviewing the objectives of this meeting—”

If he opened the messaging app on his datapad, his little sexting escapade with Ren would be right there. Ren turns the helmet towards him, but doesn’t acknowledge his presence in any other way. Hux feels blood rushing down into his groin, whispers to himself, _patience, patience_ as he’s getting light-headed.

This will be a long two hours.

All he has to say is that Project Starkiller is progressing. The rest is classified. Everything is going fine. Thank you for your time. Praise be to the First Order’s might.

He tries his damndest to make notes on all the other presentations so he can give proper feedback, but he catches himself staring at Ren. It’s happened before. Nothing new there. And he can do it in a professional manner, make it look either like awed respect or a healthy dose of envy, like he’s measuring his enemy, and isn’t thinking about his massive dick.

He may or may not be drafting a catalogue of his dildos. Which ones to use. Because he should go according to size—not start with the one that actually resembles Ren, that’d be a startling image—it could dislocate his jaw—and maybe he’ll need a plug—yes, he’ll definitely need one, a new one, the best he ever made. He finds himself doodling schematics. He stops to look at them, chewing on the stylus deep in thought.

The datapad buzzes with a notification and he closes the schematics in a scattered hurry, stares at his pale reflection on the empty screen. Tries to breathe. Fails.

 **Commander Ren** : u should stop playing w/ ur stylus.

 **Commander Ren** : dont make me show u the effect it has on me.

So—this is it. Ren is thinking the same. Ren is thinking how Hux will pretend to suck a dick tonight instead of listening to General Wu is ramble about supply chain management, which is crucial and they should both be paying attention—and maybe they _are_ too young to be here, maybe the silent blame of their fellow officers is correct, because Hux’s answer is to tap the stylus to his bottom lip, tap-tap-tap lightly then make it pull at the lush flesh.

He loves to do it with a dildo. Enjoys the weight, the texture, the sensation. Imagining that someone is teasing him, playing around before—

The stylus hits his palate and he doesn’t choke.

 **Commander Ren** : so unprofessional.

 _Ren is hard now_ , Hux thinks as an argument forms around warehousing and storage facilities. It registers as distant noise. Hux is watching Ren sitting in Snoke’s place, proud, cocky, he hasn’t said a _fucking word yet_ , but everybody knows he’s important, and no one dares to question his presence, and no one knows that he’s just _fucking around,_ sexting his boyfriend while he’s sitting here with his hard cock, legs obscured by the table—but judging by his position they’re spread wide.

He does that. Ren loves to sit like some brutish king. Hux never thought he had a claim to it. A prince of the uncivilised Republic.

He thinks of his soiled sheets. His pretty begging. The smile in his eyes on the picture he sent, which is now the background on Hux’s private comm.

He’s going to deepthroat a dildo for him. The biggest one, with ease.

Show him how good he can be.

Prove that he deserves the real thing.

*

Once the mask is off, Ren looks like wet shit. He calls Hux in the middle of his shift, so Hux leaves the bridge to fucking Peavey, and retreats to his office. The hologram is life-sized; Ren sways in the middle of the room, eyes distraught and leaning against a wall Hux can't see.

“I'm here,” Hux says, voice thin with worry. “I'm listening.”

Ren's gaze darts around, scanning over the consoles, the desk, the First Order banner, until he finds Hux sitting in a durasteel chair. Ren knows him better than to dare interrupt his working hours—which means that it's something serious, and Hux might need to sit down.

“I just wanted to let you know I might not make it today,” Ren says, and he sounds bloody _rough,_ like he swallowed glass. He's hiding under his hood, helmet in hand. “I'm sorry.”

“Hey,” Hux says, forcing him to meet his eyes. Find focus there, a semblance of solace; it’s something Hux learnt he can offer. “It's alright, just tell me what happened. Can you tell me what happened, Kylo?”

“It's just—I had a meeting with Master Snoke, and. It didn't go well.” His left eye twitches.

Hux keeps his voice low and soft. Keeps his attention on Ren, who still wavers, looks lost and confused but mostly pissed, and looks at Hux like he's the only thing he can see. “Is it about the General's Council?”

“No, that—was fine, I did a decent report on it, ten minutes, he doesn't like wasting his time. He complimented me on it, actually.”

“It sounds like your report was exceptional.” Ren’s lips tug up at that, so Hux adds, “I’m sure you did a good job. What went wrong?

“He wants to send me on a mission.”

“I was hoping he would.”

Ren looks betrayed. “Why?” he demands. “I don't want to go, I want to talk to you, I can't do that from some backwater planet tracking down Poe Dameron, as if that hotshot fool had any intel whatsoever on Skywalker—”

“I assume you were never sent on shore leave,” Hux interrupts.

“No, why would I have been? Master Snoke needs me.”

“Any other officer is allotted two standard weeks of paid leave. I generally dislike vacations. I'd make an exception for you.” He looks him over, lets his gaze linger on Ren’s mouth to lure him away from his anger and pain.

“You want me to get away with you,” Ren says slowly, watching Hux’s lips.

Hux pushes the chair back and stands, making sure that he has Ren’s attention as he moves around, voice deceptively conversational.

“Just for a couple of days or so,” he all but purrs. “Let's face it, we're both quite busy. If you agreed to a mission and I followed you in secret, saying I was on holiday somewhere else—”

“He wants me to go in three weeks’ time.”

“Then we'll meet in three weeks’ time. Just you and me.” He leans to the desk and tilts his head, giving Ren an appreciative once-over again. “Strangers in a strange land. Who knows what might happen.”

“I'd undress you in the middle of the street and make you masturbate,” Ren says with an intensity that tells Hux he has no room left in his mind for Snoke and humiliation.

 _It’s just us now. Us against the world, us against the tyrant._ “I'm afraid public indecency is illegal in most sectors.”

“We'll get a hotel room.”

“That's the plan.”

“A soft, big bed. I'll—I'd want to finger you open. Watch you squirm on fine sheets. And we could have a date. Go to a restaurant after I made love to you. I'd feed you from my hands. Have you ever had live suuri?”

“What a tempting offer,” Hux says. He can taste it: the meat would be sweet like freedom. The fact of the matter is that they both need to get laid to function properly and be of any use for the Order. The emotional benefits are a bonus Hux can’t disregard. He’s enthralled by every movement Ren makes, how he scratches his neck, looks at him nervously, _longing_ , and there’s an answering pull in Hux that makes him want to put on a spacesuit and walk through the stars until he can hold Ren in his arms.

“I need to get back to my training,” Ren says with frustration and regret.

“You’ll be alright. You can still call me, okay? It doesn’t have to be about sex. Just tell me about how your day went.”

Ren nods, distracted, then looks into the camera. “I miss you,” he says, and his hologram disintegrates into static.

*

Hux leaves his station early, which is a novel experience. He’s used to the company of cleaning droids and the late night patrol, a couple of drinks in the officer’s longue, filling his empty hours with the hollow silence of a sleeping star destroyer; but now he marches home like a man on a mission.

Ren needs him.

He’ll call.

He can pretend that all he does is in service of some grand masterplan—setting up the room, taking a too-long sonic, blow-drying his hair so it falls to his forehead in an elegant swoop—but the truth is that he just fucked off home so he can chat with his boyfriend. _Unprofessional_ , yes, but it’s—also something that makes him more like the other generals who rush home to their spouses after a draining shift. It makes him feel like an adult. He’s been grown-up for a while, he was _born_ into a day job, a part of the machine before he could even speak, but this stuff—deliberating what to wear while soft music coons in the background—this is _adult_. A rite of passage he missed as a teenager.

He can only imagine what a date will be like.

Not the ones he used to set up and suffer through. It will be a date with someone whom he likes very much. Whom he cares about.

Ren had a shitty day and he’s going to fix it.

He’s a _fixer_.

Also, he can absolutely not wear pyjamas without thinking of Ren’s mouth and hands on him, so he needs to find something casual. Settles on jodhpurs with socks, a tank top and dogtags. Sideburns neat. Ruffled up hair.

He prefers his hair like this. It’s quite long now, and he loves men with longish hair (he can’t believe that Ren even got the _haircut_ of his dream guy right, it’s like he was made for him; maybe he was, he had to be)—there’s just something sophisticated in it. The wax has its advantages, of course, you don’t want your hair in your eyes during combat, and it’s just more professional, but on their date (just three weeks now, only three weeks) he wants Ren to see him like this, bury his fingers in it and yank him into a bruising kiss.

Ren hasn’t called yet, but it’s all right. He works late hours.

Hux is on his fourth cup of tea when the holoprojector activates and he jumps to his feet. It feels like it’s been a hundred years, but he’d wait more for Ren to call, just to talk. He spills the tarine as he rushes to his blue couch where he set up the cameras, sits down with the biggest grin that freezes on his face when he assesses the state Ren is in.

He’s back in his quarters, dressed down to sweatpants and a tank top, but he looks thoroughly uncomfortable. He’s sitting on the ground, for one thing, back against his bed, which would be much more comfortable to mope on. There’s a gaping wound on the back of his hand that he’s busy stitching.

“Hey,” he says hoarsely.

“What happened?”

“Oh?” Ren genuinely looks like he hasn’t expected the question, and frowns at the needle and the thread, the glint of bacta. “Punched a wall. I’m alright now.”

“Do you need medical attention?”

“It’s just a scratch. Flesh wound.” He bites off the thread and Hux shivers. It should probably not turn him on. He promised a casual conversation. Then Ren decided to show up like this.

“Did you get a diagnosis from a med droid? There might still be fractured bones—”

“The Force would tell me. It’s okay, I’m good with first-aid. Sorry for, uh, making you watch, I guess? I just wanted to call as soon as I could.”

“I appreciate that,” Hux says, eyes trained on the wound. Ren’s needlework is _neat_. Small, even stitches. Hux doesn’t even know how to sew. It’s not a skill he needs. “I only know how to fix the droids that should fix me,” he confesses. “So this is impressive.”

“Give yourself some credit, you must have first-aid training.”

“I mean, naturally, but it’s rather basic, as in…’put bacta over it and pray to whatever Gods you worship.’ A soldier who gets injured is not a good soldier. They’re expendable. That’s what father—said.” He clears his throat after that. He won’t talk about Brendol. Ever. He’s no longer an issue. He’s nonexistent. Erased. Dissolved.

“I’ll teach you then,” Ren says brightly, which is a relief. Too bad Hux knows that smile too well, the one that trembles at the corners.

“Do you want to talk about your training session with the Supreme Leader? Why you punched a wall?”

“Ugh.” Ren slumps back, rolls his eyes. He’s so young—twenty-three, twenty-five? He shouldn’t be locked away in a room like a dog padlocked in a cage. Roaming the Finalizer fits him so much better. For all the greatness of the Supremacy, Ren only gets a small corner where he can go to lick his wounds after Snoke wears him down. That’s not fair. This cannot stand. “I’m just—I keep messing up. He teaches me so much but it just makes me feel more dumb.” He pokes at his wound.

“You’re not dumb. I’ve seen your work.”

“It’s about the Force,” Ren mutters.

“Ah,” Hux says. Of course. The Force. He takes a sip of his cooling tea, because—there’s nothing he could contribute to this, is there? But he can still listen.

“I want my Knights,” Ren blurts out. “I want to know—whether people who don’t have the wisdom and experience of Master Snoke would—struggle with it, would struggle with—or if it’s just me, if I’m really that stupid. I’ve always been the brightest, they are my _students_ , my followers, everybody would come for advice to me, even the padawans and youngling who hated me, and they _really hated me_ , but they still asked. I was knighted at twenty-one—Skywalker didn’t want me to tell the others, not even—Ben’s parents, but I was knighted, even though he thought I was too young, I was ready. Master Snoke knighted my followers, I taught them well, and he said I could be a master within a year, but I—keep messing up. I will never pass the test. And I think my knights are dead. Yes, I think they are gone, and I will be the master of nothing, the master of the dead, what am I if I couldn’t protect them? If they’re dead, just like the rest, the dissidents who had to be executed. What am I then—”

“You’re the Jedikiller,” Hux says, awed and terrified. Ren meets his gaze and that’s answer enough, that look in them, the darkness in his pretty eyes.

 _Shit_.

And no-one in the whole world knows.

“You should be rewarded,” Hux says. “You have done such a great service to the galaxy; you already have a _legacy_ , do you realise that?”

Ren picks at his wound again, a bit abashed. He has trouble internalising compliments, although he craves praise—it’s something Hux had noticed; such arrogance with such self-hatred.

“Do you ever feel like a fraud destined for greatness?” Hux asks, and Ren’s eyes round.

“ _Constantly._ ”

“I can—well. Suffice to say I can relate to that.”

“But you’re a general—”

“—yes, and one day they will find out there’s only a skinny nerd under that greatcoat who should be left alone in an office to do his engineering, not command an army, but it’s a military organisation, and how else were they to award my skills—because I have confidence in my skills, as you do in yours, and rightly so. I’ve never heard of anyone quite like you.”

“Armitage—”

“Before you remind me that I know nothing of the Force,” Hux says, raising his trembling voice, “I wish to remind _you_ that I _did_ study history and read all about the Jedi and the Sith—never forget that I’m a nerd at core, I can fool them, but I can’t fool you, and you are—you have no idea how amazing you’re going to be. Greater than anybody who came before you. Lord Vader included, may he rest in glory.”

He’s out of breath. It tends to happen when he—has a speech, he starts trembling and he knows he must look manic, but it’s crucial that Ren gets it, that he recognises his own brilliance, and if needed, Hux will scream it at him until his ears start to bleed, _you are my equal, you are like me, we must get stronger together for the conquest of space—_

“I want to kiss you,” Ren says softly.

“You will, in a couple of weeks. Won’t you? You will kiss me.”

“I’ll do so much more, my one. I didn’t even know and I’ve been waiting for you my entire life.”

*

 **Commander Ren** : guess what arrived 2day!

 **General Hux** : Do I get a picture if I guess correctly?

_[Commander Ren has forwarded a picture]_

**Commander Ren** : rejoice.

 **General Hux** : They really suit you. You look stunning.

 **Commander Ren** : love that they have a pouch for my testicles!

 **General Hux** : You are too pretty to use the word ‘testicles.’

 **Commander Ren** : no bouncing balls here mister

 **Commander Ren** : ive been jumping up n down like a crazy ash-rabbit to test it out its gr8

 **General Hux** : That sounds rather adorable, actually.

 **Commander Ren** : 3/3 compliments per message you must really like them haha

 **General Hux** : I can show you how much I like them if you wear them for me tonight.

 **Commander Ren** : !!!!!!

 **Commander Ren** : what r u planning

 **General Hux** : I think there’s been some discussion of yours truly performing fellatio for your viewing pleasure.

 **Commander Ren** : oh yeah u never did that u really should

 **General Hux** : Would you still be interested?

 **Commander Ren** : very much so yeah

 **Commander Ren** : can u also do anal

 **General Hux** : Oh my, Kylo.

 **Commander Ren** : just suggesting u dont have to

 **Commander Ren** : i know how it works but never seen it nd i think i should before our date so im not too surprised haha bet u look gorgeous taking cock i wanna see

 **General Hux** : I’m not opposed to the suggestion at all; you’d have to be really good to earn it, though.

 **Commander Ren** : ill be very good ill do anything

 **General Hux** : Do you remember your safewords?

 **Commander Ren** : slow down pause stop don’t leave without talking check in once ready

 **General Hux** : Excellent.

 **General Hux** : 10pm? Be there. Look pretty for me.

*

 **General Hux** : I’m afraid I have bad news.

 **Commander Ren** : shit are u ok

 **General Hux** : I am perfectly fine

 **Commander Ren** : thank u force

 **General Hux:** However, there’s been an accident concerning hyperspace tunneling—they need me on site to access the damage of the gravitic polarization beam with my principal engineer, and commence repairs asap. So I’m afraid I’m off to Ilum tonight. I promise I’ll make up for it.

 **Commander Ren** : just be safe ok

 **Commander Ren** : wormholes dont mess around

 **General Hux** : Well, yes, my men on site may have accidentally created a supermassive black hole. Again. Thankfully, I might have a pretty good idea how to collapse it. I’m good with stars.

 **Commander Ren** : itll be ok ur smart

 **General Hux** : Oh, hush.

 **Commander Ren** : but u are

 **Commander Ren** : love that abt u im proud i think i never congratulated on starkiller?

 **General Hux** : It’s not finished yet. If I don’t collapse that black hole, it’ll be, well, nonexistent.

 **Commander Ren** : youve got this

 **Commander Ren** : nd even just as a plan itd be so good

 **Commander Ren** : remember when we talkd abt legacies

 **Commander Ren** : this is urs

 **Commander Ren** : go protect it

 **Commander Ren** : ill be right here when u get back

*

 **Commander Ren** : lemme know if u made it i felt sg

*

 **General Hux** : I hope I didn’t worry you too much. I’m fine. Call me?

 **Commander Ren** : must be way 2 early. go to sleep!

 **General Hux:** I just got back, I’m not tired yet. I have a little surprise for you, in fact.

 **Commander Ren** : u also have an early shift tomorrow

 **Commander Ren** : sleeeeeep.

 **General Hux** : Pah. Won’t you even tell your boyfriend good night? :-(

 **Commander Ren** :  goodnite ❤️

 **General Hux** : ……...

 **Commander Ren** : do u want a lullaby

 **General Hux** : I know you’re taking the piss, but actually, that’d be rather lovely.

 **Commander Ren** : lol ok

 **Commander Ren** : only w/ audio or ull cheat i know u ;P

 **General Hux** : Your loss. 

 **Commander Ren:** i only know shyriiwook ones tho

 **General Hux** : ...You speak Shyriiwook?

 **Commander Ren** : oh baby ur in for a treat

* 

Ren looks breathtaking in the underwear Hux sent him. (He also has the perfect voice for melodic roars, something Hux couldn’t get out of his head the entire day.) His hologram stands in a doorway with his back to him, pretending to be caught unaware by the call, then he has the audacity to look over his shoulder and look surprised.

“Hey.” He gives Hux a goofy grin, which Hux returns with a smile and a roll of his eyes, then he’s back to staring at Ren’s arse. How did he never consider his arse? It’s usually obstructed by several layers, which is clearly a crime—it’s small, firm and round, and flexes as Ren twitches.

“Nervous?” Hux asks.

“A little,” Ren confesses, and crosses his arms over his chest as he turns to face the holocamera. His pecs are squeezed together by strong, thick arms, his bulge is lovingly outlined by the stretch of the underwear, his thighs could kill a man and his legs go on for days. Just because he looks like a dream doesn’t mean he knows it.

“It’s okay, handsome,” Hux says, leaning to the metal headboard of his bed, the silk of his robe whispering as he moves, deliberately slow. “I’ve got you. Look at you. So gorgeous for me.”

“It’s just weird. I’m not used to—people looking. Like I know they—don’t think I’m hideous, but it’s you, and—”

“People don’t think you’re hideous,” Hux repeats, teasing. Ren meets his eyes, and responds to the challenge.

“They want to fuck me,” he says. “I’m tall, I’m well-built. But it’s been a while since I’ve been to places where...people looked. And I didn’t like them looking, and thinking. I like when you do it.”

“Will you be good for me tonight?”

“Yes, Armitage.”

“Bounce.”

Ren looks surprised for a second, but then he rolls on the balls of his feet, jumps up a little—his hair flies, his muscles tremble. Hux makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat.

“Who wouldn’t like looking? Thank you, Kylo. I take it you are still devoted to celibacy.”

“Yes, until the date.”

“That’s okay. I want you to know that it’ll be good for me—just looking at you. Thinking things.”

Ren wets his lips. “Do you think of me?”

“You’re always on my mind. You possessed me. If you knew the things I imagine—” Hux rubs his neck, as if he was being shy.

“Tell me,” Kylo blurts. “I won’t go looking, I try not to, it’d hurt you if I—you’ll have to tell me.”

“I imagine you coming to my bedroom. Your pretty eyes are fire. You crawl into my bed. You are as you are now, in your underwear, and you cannot stand to see me dressed. It’s not fair. So you come to me on your hands and knees, and tug at the belt.”

“You’d untie it for me,” Ren says. “Because I wanted you to, because I asked—”

Hux hums as he makes the knot come undone. “The silk starts to slip,” he says—it pours down his shoulders like rainwater, a slow, susurring descent. He touches the tips of his fingers to his collarbones, looks down. Ren should see the shadow of his lashes on his cheeks. “You touch me.”

“I’d ask if I could touch your nipples.”

“What would you do if you could?”

“Bite them.”

Hux hisses, throws his head back. “Kylo,” he moans. It’s just partly for show; he can picture so clearly that he almost feels it, the sharp drag of Ren’s canine teeth, his nose pressing into his flesh as he gnaws, suckles and laps.

“The nipple thing turns you on,” Ren observes, making Hux chuckle as he grabs a fistful of his own hair.

“Very observant, Master Telepath. I think I’d enjoy some love bites on my neck, if you would be so kind.”

“You _think,_ ” Ren says. He’s hyper-focused on Hux; no one looked like this at him, not ever, as if he was the only thing that existed, something that had to be protected before even him fades to nothingness. “No one has ever done that to you?”

“The ‘nipple thing’ or—”

“Any of it.”

“I’ve been kissed,” Hux says, “also hugged, but nothing else of, well, a sexual nature.”

“I want to kiss you, then,” Ren says, voice almost a growl. “Embrace you, whatever they did, I want it all.” 

“You know you were the first to—”

“I want to kiss you,” Ren insists.

“Tell me how you’d do it, then.”

“Cup your face and pull you in. Lick into your mouth and swallow those whorish sounds you make.”

“Whorish,” Hux repeats.

“I might find the thought that you’re more experienced than me exciting,” Ren grits.

Hux scoffs, but—well, he’s both pleased and amused. He rubs a thumb over a nipple, although he hardly needs the touch; his whole body feels lit up, buzzing and warm just from Ren’s attention.

“You are so many firsts for me,” he says. “You’re my first boyfriend, ever.”

“Last,” Ren corrects. “I’d kill anyone—”

“Well-well, look at you, all possessive.”

“Don’t you belong to me?”

“You’d have to claim me. You’d have to fuck me so good—”

“I want to.”

“Fuck my mouth. Shut me up with your cock if my words hurt you.”

Ren blinks, sobering up a little. He’s rock-hard, tenting his briefs, but he doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Pause,” he says. Hux relaxes his posture and gives him a reassuring smile, but doesn’t move and doesn’t speak. Ren shifts his weight awkwardly, peers at him.

“We got ahead of ourselves a bit there,” he says, eyes wide and watery—earnest, eager.

“You mean I did.”

“Well, I threatened your imaginary sweethearts with murder, so there’s that.”

“Say it,” Hux insists. “Tell me that I got ahead of myself.”

“You got ahead of yourself, Armitage.”

“I’m sorry. I promise I’ll be more careful.”

“I liked where it was heading though. With, uh, you wanting to suck my dick.”

“You didn’t say stop,” Hux says. “Neither did I. We can resume any time, when you feel alright.”

“I feel alright,” Ren says. Hux raises a brow, so he stops to actually consider it for a moment. Sweet, darling Ren.

( _Jedikiller_.)

“I think jealousy is sexy, anyways,” Hux says.

“I shouldn’t say I’d kill anybody who caught your eye.”

“But you feel that way.”

“Um, yeah.”

“And it doesn’t make you want to punish or discipline me.”

Ren flinches. “No.”

“Then show me a good time, how about that? Make it memorable, take my mind off anyone else—in this imaginary scenario. I assure you I can only think about you, Kylo. I’ve been trying to get laid for decades and didn’t manage to get someone to fuck me. So. No one will steal me from you, I’m quite sure.”

Ren grins at him, and there’s some—mischief in his eyes that just fucking melts Hux’s heart. He surges forward without meaning to, before remembering that Ren is not actually standing in his door—that he’s worlds away still, and it’ll be days until he sees him, busz days and long nights.

“What?” he asks, voice softer than a whisper.

“It’s just. You’ve been trying to have sex with somebody for so long. And couldn’t. But the first night I decide _I’m_ interested after all, I got to—”

“Bloody hells, Kylo, are you _laughing at me_?”

That breaks something in Ren—a deep snicker escapes his chest and his eyes wrinkle up. He’s trying to hide his smile with his palm.

“You just got lucky!” Hux accuses him, shrill, but he’s grinning as well and—his face hurts. Because it’s—unusual, because one is not supposed to _giggle_ around, but they’re not on duty now, are they, they are—in the middle of holosex, after several failed attempts, and they _cannot kriffing get it together_ , but there’s something—liberating in it.

“I’m very lucky,” Ren says, voice still bubbling with laughter, but his gaze softens as he thinks about it. “I have to be the luckiest man in the galaxy if I got you.”

“You got me,” Hux says. “Don’t let go.”

“I won’t, I promise. I won’t. Resume?”

“Where did we leave off?”

“You wanted to suck my cock.”

“If only I could recall—”

“Suck my cock.”

“It’s old age,” Hux complains as he plays with the hem of his robe. “My memory is failing me. I was so certain there was a boy here, with the nicest cock I’ve ever seen—”

“How many cocks have you seen?” Ren interrupts.

“Are you ready to know?”

“Just...how many.”

“Digitally, it’s in the upper thousands, but please don’t get upset because it’s not even—what?”

Ren is beaming. “You must really like mine.”

“Well, of course. It’s one of a fucking kind.”

“Do you like it enough to pretend to suck it for me?”

“Yes, Kylo, I was getting to it.”

Ren makes a gesture that probably means _do go on_ , and Hux is frustrated, yes, because it’s so silly, but it’s also sort of funny, and—that warmth is still in his chest, and it spreads and spreads. He finds himself smiling as he picks up the dildo he settled on after careful deliberation (considerable girth, but the length doesn’t match Ren’s). He shows it to the holocamera, detached, so Ren can get used to how it looks.

“That doesn’t look like any species’ cock,” Ren says.

“I prefer my toys rather abstract. It’s still vaguely phallic.” Well. It’s sort of—sleek and rounded, and an opaque white, with a flared base. “It gets the job done. It was one of my early designs. I got better at...personalizing them.”

Ren tilts his head, frowns. “You make your own toys?”

Hux rubs his nose with his free hand. “Well. What else must an engineer do. You’d be surprised to see the similarities with weapon design; you should see what else I—”

“You make them yourself,” Ren says, and there’s that slight growl in his voice again, a rich tremble that tells Hux he’s about to be eaten. (His skin prickles and he squeezes the toy awkwardly, but the silicone doesn’t yield.) “It makes them special. Each and every one. It’s like making a lightsaber.”

Hux blinks in quick succession. _Don’t you dare think about deepthroating Ren’s saber_. “That’s one way to look at it,” he manages. 

“It’s very impressive. Will you pretend it’s my cock?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Lick it.”

Hux holds the dildo like a popsicle, face heated. He’s still thinking about Ren’s saber when he laps at it. Ren’s thumb on the activation button. The smell of ozone sharp in the air, a suffocating threat as they flirt with danger. He’d be on his knees—so he rises to his knees, and licks with more devotion, he’d be—so good, Ren would be holding it in front of his crotch, smiling down at him, proud—

“Shit,” Ren whispers. “Look at me.”

Hux keeps up the kitten-licks as their eyes meet, then looks down at Ren’s straining cock, stretching the fabric of his brand new briefs, getting them wet. Hux would like to taste that. He’s been dying to suck cock. It’s the one thing he could never replicate—he’s been wondering about the taste, the smell, the sharp, salty tang, the weight of it on his tongue, the smoothness of the skin and the line of a vein.

He wants Ren’s cock in his mouth.

He wants it so badly.

And he only has to wait.

He starts bobbing his head. He will start with it, on the date, as soon as they get into their hotel room, he’ll drop to his knees and make Ren get hard on his tongue, taste his precome, get him edging. Hands behind his own back, working himself open with a plug, and Ren would—grab his hair—Hux grabs his own hair now, pulls and moans.

“Pause.”

He opens his eyes to realise he’s teared up, but he’s still—pulling, and breathing heavily through his nose, and thinking of Ren’s pulsing cock—

“Get comfortable, but don’t resume yet.”

Hux follows the orders. He’s good at that. He’s also good at giving them. He lets the dildo slide free, slowly, carefully sits back on his heels and waits for further instructions. Ren’s skin glows with sweat, his hair sticks to his forehead and he doesn’t seem to be able to speak just yet. Hux counts to twenty, breathing evenly—it works, because Ren’s breath starts matching his, the heaving gulps he takes.

“How are you?” he asks.

“I’m close,” Ren says tightly, makes a face. “Getting it under control. I’ll be good to resume soon.”

“Take your time. I might enjoy interruption, as a matter of fact.”

“Do you?”

“It prolongs the pleasure.”

Ren mutters something in a language Hux doesn’t understand; a curse or a prayer. He looks at Hux as if he was begging for absolution, standing proudly and his cock pointing forward. He looks like a brutal warrior after a fight he nearly lost, ready to offer sacrifice to a god who might deny his unworthy wishes.

“I want to watch you come,” he says thickly. “What would make you—?”

 _Ravage me_ , Hux thinks.

“You have expressed interest in anal sex,” he says instead, arching a brow. He needs to be cool now. Clinical. “Is that something you’d still enjoy watching?”

“I might enjoy it a bit too much,” Ren grunts. He looks at the dildo in Hux’s hand and his gaze lingers on Hux’s fingers, his wrists, travels up his arm. “I want it though. I want to—can you do it fast?”

“I can,” he says, hoarse, and resists to clench his arse, although he’s so—wet and loose from preparations—“It’d make it more intense to watch.”

Ren gives him a sad little look he cannot quite decipher, but which makes his heart ache.

“I’d be—intense. If I was there. If this was—our date, and this was really happening, I’d give it to you just how you need it.”

Hux clenches his arse and peeps. _Damn it_.

“It’s really happening,” he says. “You’re just—”

“Not with you. Yeah.”

_I miss you._

_I miss you so kriffing—_

“We can make it easier for you,” Hux says, tugging his hair behind his ear absentmindedly. Ren follows it with his gaze, tracks every minute movement. Hux closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “Hands behind your neck,” he whispers.

“What?”

“When we resume I’ll ask you to put your hands behind your neck. Keep them there. It’ll be easier to resist not touching yourself. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you?”

“Never.”

“So, then. Hands behind your neck.”

“Resume,” Ren says, lacing his fingers just like Hux asked—it’s a beautiful position, Hux will need a _statue_ like this, Ren standing in his doorway, ready to do anything he asks—

Hux rolls to his stomach. He rolls to his stomach while the holocamera watches, recording everything, scanning every angle, there’s no way to hide anything as he lifts his robe and reveals his ass.

Ren makes a strained sound. Hux buries his face into the mattress. He never quite mastered this part. It’s not as elegant as he planned. He kept reviewing the footage he made of himself doing this, and never got what he wanted. He parts his cheeks,  hears Ren gasp.

“I’m keeping so clean for you, Kylo,” Hux whispers into the crisp linen. “I’ve been ordering fruits from the kitchen so I’d be sweet for you, and I’ve been—training. I want to be ready for you. Take you whole.”

“It’s crystal.”

“Kyber. Yes.”

He clenches around the plug in his ass. It’s more decorative than he usually prefers, metal framing the kyber in the base—but he thought it suited Ren, it had to be made, he just had to use the design he sketched during the meeting, print it. He got the kyber easily, a little souvenir from Starkiller. It was—gutting to make this, because objects are permanent in a way people aren’t, and should Ren—change his mind, turn back—he’ll be stuck with this, a red crystal in a silvery frame, and he won’t be able to think of anybody but Ren when he looks at it, he won’t be able to think of anybody—

“Let me see,” Ren asks hotly. Hux peers at him from behind his shoulder. Ren is standing as instructed, eyes wild and cock so hard it looks it might tip Ren off-balance, pulling him towards the bed—and if he was really there, he could, no, he _would_ just stumble forward, climb over Hux, press against him bodily—nuzzle his neck and pin him down with his cock, one long, sharp thrust until he’s fully seated inside—

Then the pull.

Hux grabs the plug’s base and pulls it free, wincing; a gasp, and he freezes.

He’s so open.

He can feel it. He can—and he’s _presenting_ it to Ren, ass in the air, the lube glistening around the rim, oh, he applied it _liberally_ , he wanted to be soaking in it, and it was so uncomfortable and sticky, but he could keep his presence of mind, and focus on Ren’s needs, Ren needs—What was it he needed—

Ren needs him.

He looks over his shoulder again. Ren has put his back against the doorframe. His muscles are tense, as if he was ready to leap at him.

“Do you need a minute?” Hux whispers. He feels—hollowed out, and he—wants to be filled, but doesn’t want the plug, or the dildo, or his fingers, not any of the toys just—Ren’s thumb, tongue, fist, cock, whatever, _attention_ , and he could get it—soon, he just—has to be good.

“I need you to continue,” Ren says, very even, with visible effort. “Face me, if possible.”

Hux rolls to his back, wriggling out of his robe on the way so he’s naked completely, lying on a bed with his shedded silk, the toys within arms reach, the camera recording everything.

“What should I do?” he asks. He hardly recognises his own voice, thick with desire but also—softer than usual, just because he’s speaking to Ren. He has a tone just for him already, and they’ll need a secret language, when they’re in that hotel, because whatever will be said there, under the covers, will be things that cannot be expressed in Basic, so they will—have to invent something with the elements of caring deeply, wanting, madness, a strong feeling of affection, utter fucking _devotion_ —

“What would _I_ do?” Ren asks back. “I told you. Give it to yourself—I’m sorry I can’t, I’m sorry I’m not with you, give yourself this present as if I was there—”

Hux reaches for the dildo blindly. It feels like suicide when he slips it inside, as if he was stabbing himself in the heart. Warmness spreads in his chest as he pushes in deeper, everything is sticky and hot like blood, he’s choking on his spit as he moans, an outpouring of emotion—he cannot stop it, the dildo is pushing inside and something is pushing at his ribs, he’s been cut open by a vibroblade—

“Kylo,” he calls helplessly, in ecstasy.

“I’m here, I’m here, you have to believe I’m here, that’s me, do you feel me?”

The dildo is too smooth, too short. Hux jabs it inside, fast, fast, fast, endlessly frustrated by everything it lacks, everything it cannot even represent, it’s _not Ren_ ,  it’s—a fraud, a fake.

“Need you,” he whines, tossing his head to the side as his back arches off the mattress. He feels like his body is possessed, but he knows it’s not the Force: it’s something bigger, older, more powerful.

 _I—you_.

“I’ve got you.”

_No no no._

_Not that._

_That’s not the thing that has to be said._

“Kylo,” he tries again, voice breaking on the last syllable. He claws at his chest, _get it out of me, get it out before it chokes me, I’m in agony, save me, I—you—I—_

“Stop.”

Tears sting his eyes as he stares at the low ceiling in disbelief, but his hand immediately stills. His chest is heaving, it’s caving in, he’ll be crushed by the weight of feeling—

“I need to excuse myself,” Ren says.

Hux gets up to his elbows to look at him, vision swimming. Ren is kneeling—when did he get to his knees?—and his hands are still linked behind his neck. He’s bitten his lips. His mouth is bleeding.

“It’s alright,” Hux says, thinks, _you ate my heart._

_I—you._

_I—you._

_I—_

“It’s alright,” he says, “love.”

*

Hux marches towards training complex AA-01 below the trooper barracks, steps determined, jaw set. He has a duffel bag thrown over his shoulder, containing civilian clothes he acquired in his youth as part of some fruitless flirtation with fashion, when he was also fruitlessly flirting with fellow college students and well-dressed men in tea shops.

None of them compare to Ren.

He wasted his time on them.

He wishes he could go back to those pretentious pubs and cheap restaurants with Ren on his arm, walk to his past self and his worthless partner he found on the holonet, and tell himself: _don’t settle for anything less. You just wait. You can do so much better._

The fantasy escalates in Ren raising his hand while his former date reaches for his collar, trying to loosen it in vain.

They could have the galaxy all to themselves. They could get a say in who gets to live in it. There would be order and peace. His new plan is simple: he will pop the question in about a year, and marry Ren once they safely remove Snoke from the picture. They’d rule as Emperors; it has a better ring to it than Supreme Leaders. It remind Hux of an age of stability, prosperity, _hope_. He remembers Palpatine on the throne. Lord Vader, his right hand.

And there was a house and a cat.

He lived on Arkanis with Deedee and a nanny droid, and it would be raining and Mathilda would be purring, and there was a fireplace, and cocoa aplenty, and he would watch the news and feel safe. His father would rarely come to visit, but when he did, he always brought gifts, and he would lift him up and let him sit on his shoulder.

_You will grow up strong like Papa, won’t you, son?_

(And then there were the Rebel fighters under the bed.)

He and Ren are going to take back Arkanis. There will be a house—just a modest cottage, nothing frivolous, he’ll be a good Emperor, he will divide the wealth of the galaxy equally—there will be a cat, curled up with Ren in bed in the mornings, and Hux will linger, _five more minutes, there’s no rush, we’re at peace now, we are—_

And by the time he’s forty they’ll have a child cloned on Kamino, created from their combined DNA, and she’ll need a sibling, two kids, two daughters, maybe, and they’ll sit by the fireplace and listen to the rain.

He can’t yet tell Ren any of this. No need to scare him away. The future awaits; and the Order comes before personal matters, the Order has to be fixed, and Starkiller must be completed, and the war will be won by a single shot and five beams of light.

He will see them reflected in Ren’s eyes.

The war will be won.

He reflexively checks the vibroblade up his sleeve before he knocks on the door, counts to three and lets himself in. The gym is empty and badly lit, lights at about twenty percent; it looks haunted, the strange shapes of the rows of equipment vague and threatening. He hears a rhythmic, dull beat, _du-dump, du-dump,_ and follows the noise.

He finds Phasma at a boxing bag, tape wrapped around her hands. She’s without armour, or her helmet, in baggy trousers and a sports bra. Good. Hux needed to catch her off-guard.

“Good morning,” he says, cheery. His voice echoes through the vast room.

“Morning,” Phasma says. She’s not looking at him. Hux refuses to be intimidated, and steps into her line of vision, smiling still, gripping the duffel bag.

“I need a favour,” he announces.

Phasma stops punching the bag, looks at him for a minute. Hux gulps, but doesn’t waver. Phasma resumes the punches. “You’re out of favours, Armitage.”

“We can still have a bargain. Can’t we, old friend?

“What do you want.”

“I’m going on leave to conduct some personal business.”

That catches Phasma’s attention. She looks at Hux, eyes pale and cold. “Hell you do,” she says. “You never take a day off. _Ever_. That’s something I always found admirable, in fact.”

Hux suppresses a smug grin. Phasma’s praise is a dangerous thing.

“This is why I want you to help with my cover. In case people get...suspicious. I want you to be the one who does the regular check-ins. Personally. And when my coordinates don’t match up, don’t alert authorities.”

Phasma looks him over. “How are you going to sell it?”

“I’ll tell Leader Snoke it’s a family emergency.”

“Daddy’s ghost?”

“Haha. Funny. No. I do have a stepmother, you know. Sort of. We’re friendly.”

Maratelle Myung met him at Brendol’s funeral, told him he was the reason she divorced a man she was stupid enough to love, they got drunk, Maratelle slapped his face and called him _kid_ , gave him a hug and sent him a silly picture of a loth cat on his twenty-ninth life-day. He haven’t heard from her since.

Snoke doesn’t have to know that. 

He won’t care.

“Where does she live, anyway?”

“Arkanis.”

“And where will you be?”

“Dorsoduro.”

“A pleasure planet?” Phasma asks. “Goodness.” 

“You only need to remember that part where I went to visit my poor, ill stepmother in a hospital on my homeplanet.”

“Is that the best cover story you could come up with?”

Hux shrugs. “It’s banal enough that Leader Snoke won’t look into it.”

“He won’t. Canady and Peavey will.”

“That’s why you’ll cover for me.”

Phasma rolls her eyes with a sigh, and steps away from the punching bag. Hux watches her get a water bottle, take a big swig. Frown. Think.

If she’s thinking about it—if she _bothers_ to consider the offer—

Phasma wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Looks Hux over again. “It’s doable,” she says. “I might fall for it, if I didn’t know you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Know you well enough that you’d let her die.”

“That’s not true. I care for—”

“I might be projecting.” Phasma punches the bag as she passes it hard enough that it startles Hux. “What’s in it for me?”

“I’m doing the stupid modifications on your blaster.”

“Are you now? You said they couldn’t be done.”

“Because I think you should just switch to a SE-44C like the rest of us.”

“Fine, you can also modify me a 44C.”

“Unbelievable,” Hux mutters.

“Not as unbelievable as General Hux dropping everything to respond to a family emergency.”

“Fair enough.”

“When are you leaving?”

“In an hour. After I talked to Leader Snoke. It’s an emergency, after all.”

“I think my baton’s micromesh matrix needs some tinkering.”

“Sod off,” Hux says. They both know it means yes. Phasma grins at him, pats the punching bag again, and heads to the bench press. Hux has the files ready to send to her, with further encrypted instructions. He unlocks the device on his way out, smiles at the list of messages he got from Ren. The last one is displayed.

 **Commander Ren:** landed safely waiting for u xxx u got this

The door hisses open but Hux turns back, looks at Phasma putting on the weights.

“You never asked me what I’ll really doing,” he says.

“You’d just lie about it,” Phasma mutters.

“I have a boyfriend,” Hux says. It’s magical to admit to it out loud; at the same time, it’s strange that people don’t know this just by looking at him, can’t see that he’s _happy_.

“Good for you.”

Hux scoffs. At times like this he wishes he had real friends. People who care.

It doesn’t matter.

He has Ren.

“See you in five days,” he says as he turns on his heels. Now into the monster’s cave; but if he managed to convince Phasma to help, Snoke will be easy to manipulate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warnings:** powerplay: Hux often acts dominant (there’s no humiliation/bossing around, but he swiftly takes control of some explicit situations and Ren accepts it happily) |  sex talk escalates abruptly | Ren terminates a sexy call without alerting Hux, making him feel rejected - they talk it out though | Ren patches up wounds (unrelated to sexual activity) |  weapon play fantasy: Hux thinks about deepthroating Ren’s lightsaber | masturbation likened to suicide with some rather jarring imagery (because Hux is That Extra)
> 
> A million thanks to ktula and Deadsy for the continued proofreading and beta-services 💖
> 
> The title once again demonstrate my inability to give any sort of title that's _not_ from a song; please enjoy this industrial experience by [Einstürzende Neubauten](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h_9BDllJaMs). ~~A playlist will probably be released after chapter 7.~~
> 
> You can find a moodboard on [twitter](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1078667611825684480), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/366585) and in [hell](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/181488896011/reach-out-and-touch-faith-chapter-4-armitage)
> 
> There's an interview on [dreamwidth](https://forautumn.dreamwidth.org/1436.html) that talks about Hux's sex life and emotional journey at length, which would annoy the shit out of him


	5. Courage and Patience and Grit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hux is in civvies, his red hair hanging loose, swept to the side of his face. He’s wearing a light blue sweater with a shoulder holster, long sleeves hiding his delicate wrists, and he’s holding onto the strap of a black canvas bag slung casually over his shoulder. He’s wearing black dress shorts that expose his calves and match his shoulder holster, and combat boots with a hint of silver at the toe that suggests a hidden knife. 
> 
> Kylo can’t even move to greet him, just wants to stare at him forever, drinking him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings are at the end.
> 
> As always, this work has been beta'd by deadsy.

The ship arrives, and Hux isn’t on it.

Kylo stares at every single one of the passengers disembarking, even though he would know if Hux was among them. He would know. He would definitely know, because he would be able to _smell_ him, he would know because Hux is his soulmate and he will always know anything that—

The ship has arrived, and Hux isn’t on it.

He should text. He’s going to text, he’s going to pull out his datapad and text Hux. Hux has probably texted already, that’s probably why his datapad has been vibrating in his pocket, it’s just—he was looking forward to this so _much_ , this date on this bright technicolour planet has been the only thing that he’s looked forward to for weeks, ever since Snoke yanked him from Jakku prematurely, pulled him away from the _Finalizer_ and his soulmate and everything that Kylo had ever held dear and he should have known that he wasn’t going to get it, he should have known that this was too good to be real, it’s just like everything with his Knights all over again, he should have—

The ship has arrived—

*

**General Hux:** Unavoidably delayed.

**General Hux:** On my way.

**General Hux:** I’ll make it up to you.

*

Kylo’s hand is throbbing as he leans against the wall next to arrivals, cloaked in the Force so that nobody asks him any questions. His finger is shaking as he pecks out a message on his datapad.

**Commander Ren:** u sure u r ok

The response is immediate.

**General Hux:** Yes, darling. I’m fine, I’m just late.

**Commander Ren:** u r nvr late

**General Hux:** I am truly sorry, Kylo. It was unavoidable.

**Commander Ren:** waited 4 u

**General Hux:** ETA seventeen minutes.

**Commander Ren:** i waited

**General Hux:** On a Class Type B shuttle. We just punched through atmo.

**Commander Ren:** a republican vssl, for me?!?

**Commander Ren:** i feel u now

**Commander Ren:** in the Force

**General Hux:** You’ll feel more than that shortly.

**Commander Ren:** yessssssss

**Commander Ren:** so will u

**Commander Ren:** gonna fck u so good suck ur cock pinch your nipples how u liek it i saw in that video u sent me three days ago how u grabbed at them when u were close pinched them tight gonna do all that for u

**General Hux:**...how hard are you right now?

**Commander Ren:** hard enough to fuck

*

The first glimpse of Hux is like a kick to Kylo’s solar plexus. He puts his gloved hand on his own chest by reflex, feels the _thud-thud-thud_ of his heart through the thin fabric of the tunic he’s wearing. He had planned to go right up to the gate, sweep Hux into his arms and pull him close for a kiss—but he had been picturing Hux as he’d last seen him, hair slicked back and command cap on, greatcoat around his shoulders, uniform pristine.

Hux is in _civvies_ , his red hair hanging loose, swept to the side of his face. He’s wearing a light blue sweater with a shoulder holster, long sleeves hiding his delicate wrists, and he’s holding onto the strap of a black canvas bag slung casually over his shoulder. He’s wearing  black dress shorts that expose his calves and match his shoulder holster, and combat boots with a hint of silver at the toe that suggests a hidden knife. Kylo can’t even move to greet him, just wants to stare at him forever, drinking him in.

Hux doesn’t even hesitate, just strides decisively over, stops in front of him. “Well,” he purrs. “You’re hard to miss.”

Kylo reaches out to put his hand on Hux’s waist, and Hux turns slightly to the side, catches Kylo’s wrist in his hand.

Time stops. Hux is touching him, physically, for the first time in weeks. Kylo’s mouth is dry and his cock is hard and he wants to just pick Hux up and press him against the nearest wall, let the crowd ebb and flow around them while Kylo tugs Hux’s sweater up and his shorts down, presses his palm against Hux’s adorable cock. He wants to rub his palm against Hux until Hux comes, wants to swallow the moans right out of Hux’s mouth and devour them, wants to thread his fingers through Hux’s hair and tug Hux’s head back, expose his neck, wants to do it all at once while also sticking lubed fingers right up Hux’s—

“—okay?” Hux asks, his forehead creasing as he frowns. “You haven’t said—”

“Hi,” Kylo says. “Hi, Armitage.”

Hux’s cheeks pink immediately. “Kylo,” he says softly. “I was worried that—”

“You were worried?” Kylo says, tilting his head. “I nearly had a fucking heart attack when you weren’t on the first shuttle—”

“—told you, there were—”

“—scared you weren’t coming at all—”

“—you know I would never—”

“—just left me and—”

“— _Kylo_ —”

Kylo steps forward and wraps his arms around Hux, hauls him in close and just—just holds him. Hux tenses a moment, and then relaxes. His hair smells like cinnamon, and his neck smells like aftershave, sharp and clean and professional, and Kylo can feel his heartbeat adjust to beat in time with Hux’s, just like it did back on Jakku.

(This is meant to happen. This is exactly as the Force wills it.)

Hux’s hands are moving on Kylo’s back, one up toward his shoulder blades, the other down toward his waist. “You look stunning,” Hux murmurs. “Where did you get this jacket?”

“Just had it,” Kylo says softly, burrowing into Hux’s shoulder. He’d had to have it custom tailored—all the other leather jackets he’d tried on had been tight in the shoulders, but this one fits him perfectly, and it looks fucking good—and he can see that reflected in Hux’s eyes, in the lustful way that Hux is looking at him.

(They can do that, now. Stare at each other openly, exhibit lust. Kylo can feel the Force humming through his veins. It was right to wait—and it’s right to have everything now that they’re together again.)

“You’re not worried about your face?” Hux says. “I thought...”

“Encouraging people not to look at me,” Kylo says. “Just you, Armitage. Only you.” He grimaces. “Also I’m practically naked. Everybody is looking at everything else.”

“I know,” Hux says, voice low. “I’ve never seen you in this few layers before.” He tugs at the edge of Kylo’s tunic, slips his hand underneath and hooks his thumb into Kylo’s belt loop, splays his fingers over the top of Kylo’s ass. His hand is entirely bare, ice-cold on Kylo’s skin, and Kylo shudders. “Will you strip for me at the hotel?” Hux asks.

“I’ll strip for you here,” Kylo says hoarsely. “Right here, Armie, let me—”

Hux steps back from him, puts his hand on Kylo’s wrist. “Not here,” Hux says. He swallows, continues talking in that low voice. “It’s been three weeks since I’ve seen you in the flesh. I can’t bear for the first time to be in a spaceport. Take me—take me to the hotel, Kylo.”

Kylo nods, too overcome to say anything. He can see the pulse of Hux’s heartbeat in his neck. He can hear everything around them, but it’s all just a blur, because the only thing that matters is Hux—and the only thing that Hux is thinking about is him.

“This way,” Kylo says, once he’s gotten ahold of himself. He catches Hux’s hand in his, cold skin against warm leather, and Kylo needs another moment to get his voice back. “Transport is over here.”

“It’s not as obvious as I thought it would be,” Hux says, casually, as they start walking in the direction Kylo had indicated.

“Hmm?” Kylo asks. He’s reaching out ahead of them with the Force, gently nudging people out of the way, encouraging pedestrians to make a path for them. He knows Hux can take care of both of them—look at the casual way he wears his shoulder harness, like it doesn’t matter. Like pairing it with an adorable sweater and combat boots is the most natural thing to do—but he wants to take care of Hux. (He wants to get them the hell out of this spaceport.)

“Your cock,” Hux says. “Black trousers were a good choice.”

Kylo whimpers, and Hux grins tightly at him, looks away, and keeps talking in that same, soft, casual voice. The same voice he uses in meetings when he’s reporting on the status of various line items, except he’s using it now, in public, to talk lewdly about Kylo.

“I can see it, of course, because I know what to look for. You were already having trouble, weren’t you, Kylo? Isn’t that why you have it tucked up? Were you standing here, waiting for me, hard as a rock, your cock trapped down the leg of your pants? Did you have to go to the fresher to adjust it? Did you gasp when you touched it? Did it feel good in your hand? Do you remember how it felt to have it in my hand?”

“Stop,” Kylo says, revises it immediately. “Pause.”

Hux’s face softens, and he leans over, presses his lips against Kylo’s shoulder. Squeezes Kylo’s hand as they keep walking toward the entrance. They’re that much closer to freedom, to everything that the Force has promised them that they can have.

“How was your trip?” Kylo asks, his words halting as he tries to get control of himself. His cock is in the way, hard and ungainly, and it’s entirely too far to get to the hotel when he just wants to have Armitage right here, wants to bend him over the closest flat surface—that table, right there, where a Dug and a Rodian are sharing some kind of a hot drink—just, clear the surface with the Force and drop down some kind of privacy screen for Hux and just take him, right here, split him open and—

“Re-entry was—well, we have better pilots in the Order, that’s all I’ll say about that.” He’s scowling, face pinched tight, and it’s adorable.

“I’m an amazing pilot,” Kylo says immediately. “I should have come to get you personally.”

“Next time,” Hux says, squeezing his hand again. “I’m still working to get you stationed on the Finalizer.” He steps out into the bright sunshine, winces, and brings his free hand up to shield his eyes. “You said there was a transport?”

“Over here,” Kylo says, tugging at Hux gently, and then flicking his fingers down by his side. The air in front of them shimmers and then coalesces as the Force cloak fades.

Hux lets go of Kylo’s hand. “You rented a speeder bike?”

“Yeah,” Kylo says. “Do you...not like it?”

Hux reaches out, tentatively touches the back of it. “I’m afraid—if I have it correct—this model isn’t meant for two passengers.”

“It’s okay,” Kylo says, swinging his leg over it, and then gesturing to Hux. “Come sit behind me, hold onto my waist.”

“I’m heavier than I look,” Hux warns. “And I have a bag.” He hoists up the canvas bag that he’s carrying. As though Kylo hadn’t seen it.

“I have the Force,” Kylo says. He raises his eyebrows, grins at his soulmate. “I won’t let you get hurt, babe. Not on my watch.”

Hux gets on the bike, wraps his arms around Kylo’s waist, and buries his head between Kylo’s shoulder blades, right up against his spine.

Kylo grins, revs the engine and tears out of the spaceport toward their hotel.

*

“Check-in isn’t until sixteen hundred hours,” the Toydarian staff member says flatly, arms crossed over her chest as she hovers behind the desk. “That’s absolutely non-negotiable.”

“We need to check in now,” Kylo says intensely. He looks back at Hux, who is casually looking at the art hung in the lobby, as though he hadn’t been so hard during the speeder bike ride that Kylo could feel the nub of Hux’s cock pressing up against his back through his pants. Kylo looks back at the staff member, waves his fingers, weights his words with the Force. “It is imperative that we check in now.”

“No,” she repeats.

(She’s resisting, how is she resisting?)

“It is imperative,” Kylo repeats, curling his fingers and starting to—

“Hey,” Hux says, putting his hand on Kylo’s arm, intertwining his cold fingers with Kylo’s. “Darling.”

Kylo takes a deep breath, forcibly relaxes his hand.

“It’s a simple mistake, sweetheart. You didn’t know the rooms weren’t ready until sixteen hundred hours. I didn’t know that the rooms weren’t ready until sixteen hundred hours.” Hux laughs, and it sounds high and forced. “We’ll just go out for a couple of hours, see the sights of the city. Isn’t that right, love?”

Kylo swallows. Tries to get himself under control.

( _love love love love_ , and it echoes around in his head, reverberates back, it’s the only thing he can hear and the only thing he can think of and this is right, this is right, this is So Right—)

“You said the room will be ready at sixteen hundred hours,” Hux is repeating.

“Yes,” the staff member says, looking mollified. “He’s rented the honeymoon suite—”

“Ah, there,” Hux says, finally relaxing a little. “We’ll just have to have some patience for that, won’t we?”

“I should book another room,” Kylo mutters under his breath. “At another hotel, that will let us—”

Hux squeezes his hand. “Absolutely not,” he says, still sounding chipper. “You’ve chosen this one. You were quite clear to me over our previous calls that this was the correct one, weren’t you?”

Kylo nods.

Hux leans over, whispers in his ear. “I know how important this is to you. I know how long you’ve waited. You told me that this hotel was perfect, you told me that this room was perfect, you booked these things with that in mind—you can wait a little longer, sweetheart. You can. I know you can.”

“Thank you,” Kylo says to the desk clerk, a little stiffly. He can still feel everything, right behind his teeth, and it’s an effort to swallow it all back. “We’ll return later this afternoon.”

“We look forward to seeing you then, sirs,” she replies, wings whirring.

“Are you sure,” Kylo asks as Hux leads them away. “I could—”

“Street,” Hux says, in his regular voice. “Outside, now. We’re going for a walk.”

*

The sky on this planet is tinged slightly purple. There’s a bit of a breeze, and most of the trees and bushes are covered in little tiny pastel blossoms. There are flower petals strewn all over the street and blowing across the digital billboards, flashing luridly coloured advertisements. Everyone is fashionably dressed and calm and smiling and laughing and happy and—

Kylo wants to punch something. He wants to punch something so _badly_ , because how could he have been so oblivious as to miss the time that the hotel room would be available for them—he should be balls-deep in Hux right now—or at least up to his knuckles. He should be pressing his tongue into Hux’s mouth, he should be pouring Hux a bath and gently lowering Hux’s nude body into it, he should be anywhere but here, he should be—

“Shh,” Hux says from beside him. “It’s alright, I’m not upset.” He’s walking quickly, the exact same pace Kylo is walking at, squinting at the sun and wrinkling his nose adorably whenever an odd smell wafts over from any one of the little tiny boutiques that are peppered along the street here. “I never travel, I didn’t know—”

“I should have known,” Kylo interrupts.

Hux glances over at him. “Stay in a lot of hotels, do you?”

“We travelled,” Kylo mutters.

“Let’s go over there,” Hux says abruptly. “There’s some kind of a—tourist attraction or something.”

“I can just—”

“Kylo,” Hux says, blinking at him and looking very, very serious. “Your eyes are wild. Your breathing is unsteady. You look like you’re going to fly off the handle, and I know and trust that you won’t—but this is a setback that neither of us anticipated, and I would dearly love to have a cigarra and calm down, so I am proposing that we walk over that way, and go stand on that little—passenger tourist thing—and just relax a little, okay?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I need this for me, okay? Will you do this for me?”

Kylo takes a deep breath, and nods. “Okay,” he says. “Yes, Armitage.”

*

The place that Hux leads them to is some sort of tourist spot, apparently primarily used for selfies. It’s a bridge, overlooking a river that runs through the city. The river is slightly more teal than most rivers Kylo has seen, the bridge some kind of white and turquoise decorative monstrosity that’s entirely too cute to be real, and Kylo misses the sleek lines of the Finalizer, a little, just standing on it.

The breeze coming off the water helps, though.

He watches, intently, as Hux takes a small metal case from his pocket, flicks it open to reveal a line of neat pastel cigarros, organized by gradient. His long, nimble fingers hesitate a moment before he selects a pale pink one, deftly removes it and places it between his lips. Closes and pockets the metal case, takes out a sparker and activates it, carefully inhaling until the flame catches, and then slipping the case and the sparker back into his pocket.

Kylo is entranced, completely. His soulmate is absolutely stunning, gorgeous and elegant, and Kylo knows what’s underneath that sweater, even though nobody else does, knows about that pale perfect chest and the delicate peaks of his nipples, knows how soft Hux’s tummy is in contrast to the sharpness of his cheekbones, knows about the points of his hips and the way that his adorable cock juts up toward his belly when he’s aroused and—

“Would you like one?” Hux asks.

“Savorium?” Kylo asks.

Hux scoffs. “That’s not likely to be legal here, and I can’t afford to have _that_ on my blood screenings, the medical wing would have a field day.” He leans over the railing of the bridge, flicks the cigarra and watches the ash fall down into the water. “Tabac,” he says, after a moment. “I’ll get you one if you like.”

Kylo takes a step closer to him, feels his heart rate increase just by Hux’s proximity. “I’d rather,” he says slowly, “have some of yours.”

Hux raises his eyebrow, deliberately blows a series of smoke rings. “Well, then,” he says, voice lowering. “Come over here, Kylo.” He holds the cigarra up, rotates his hand so that Kylo can bend down, and inhale from it.

The smoke is sharp and tight in his lungs. Kylo holds it in his mouth for a moment, and then quickly steps back and turns toward the river, coughing violently and covering his mouth with his hand. There are tears stinging in his eyes, and his lungs feel like absolute shit.

When he finally gets control of himself and looks back over at Hux, Hux is smirking.

“First time?” Hux asks.

Kylo grimaces. “Was it that obvious?”

“It was,” Hux says, still amused. “But I have a theory for something, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll inhale it into my mouth,” Hux says, leaning in close to Kylo. “And then I’ll exhale it into yours.”

Kylo blinks.

“Lean in,” Hux says quietly, and he takes a deep drag off the cigarra.

“Kiss me,” Kylo says. “You don’t—we haven’t—kiss me.”

“Right here?” Hux says, scanning the area around them, exhaling the smoke in twin plumes from his nose. “Now?”

“Yes,” Kylo says. “I want it.” He takes a step toward Hux, and then another. Watches Hux’s pupils dilate as Kylo crowds his soulmate up against the bridge. “I want to kiss you,” he repeats. “I think about your lips on my mask all the time. I haven’t polished it since Jakku. I want your tongue on every part of my body. I want your lips on mine. I want everyone here to see that you belong to me, Hux. I want that. Let me have it. Kiss me, Armitage.”

Hux blinks. His mouth is partly open, his tongue is just barely visible.

“Consent,” Kylo says, voice low. Fuck, he’s hard, he’s so fucking hard. He glances down at Hux, but even if Hux’s sweater wasn’t long enough to cover it, he wouldn’t be able to see anything, he wouldn’t be able to know unless he put his palm there. He wants to kiss Hux so badly that his entire body aches. He should have kissed him on Jakku. He should have pressed their lips together in that tent. He just wants to touch his soulmate again. He wants that more than anything. He just wants to—

“Yes,” Hux breathes, and his breath smells slightly of cloves. “Go ahead, Kylo.”

Kylo presses their lips together.

Hux’s lips are soft, open. His mouth is—his mouth is right there, his lips parted, and Kylo can just—his tongue is—his tongue—

Kylo groans in Hux’s mouth, and Hux licks it up, swallows it back.

“Like that,” Hux says. “Do it again.”

Kylo kisses him again, and Hux melts underneath him, waves of affection rippling from his mind right into Kylo’s. Kylo puts his arm around his soulmate’s waist, and pulls him in close, ruts up against him.

Hux whimpers, and Kylo is overtaken by it completely.

“I missed you so much,” Kylo breathes. “Your hair is so bright.”

Hux pulls back a little, looks at him incredulously. “My _hair_?”

“It doesn’t show in the holos,” Kylo says, breathless. “Not like this. It just gets—swallowed. And now, right here—” He reaches out, brushes his thumb against Hux’s sideburns. “You’re just so beautiful.”

Hux blushes, bites his lip a moment before bringing up his nearly-abandoned cigarra and taking another drag. “Kylo,” he says.

“I want everything,” Kylo says, his words rushing out of his mouth. “I want it all, Hux, please—we’ve waited so long, and it’s been so difficult, and I just need this to be perfect—”

Hux’s mouth twists. “There’s time,” he says.

“I want it _now_ ,” Kylo insists. “I want—”

“I think I’m hungry,” Hux says.

“I’ll buy you something,” Kylo says, all in a rush. “Let me—can I?”

Hux smiles at him. “Treat me,” he says, voice low. “Do it.”

*

Hux wants ice cream.

Hux wants ice cream, and Kylo buys it for him because outside of his own food, there’s nothing else that Kylo spends his pay on—but, oh, fuck, this is a mistake.

It’s a mistake because the ice cream Hux has chosen is strawberry flavoured, a pastel pink that draws attention to the pink of his lips, to his hair, a pink that contrasts with the green of his eyes, and Hux is _loving_ it. He’s lapping at the frozen concoction with the flat of his tongue, eyes fluttering closed in delight, and it’s just so _much_.

“Do you want some,” Hux breathes, his voice husky.

Kylo nods, because he’s too overcome to speak. He expects Hux to offer him the cone, to press it up against his lips and let Kylo lick at it—but instead, Hux laps up some of the cone and then surges forward, presses his lips against Kylo’s, and presses the ice cream right into Kylo’s mouth.

Kylo swallows by instinct, the coldness sliding down his throat.

“It’s good?” Hux breathes against his mouth.

“So good,” Kylo responds. “So good, Armitage, sweetheart, I—”

Hux kisses him.

Kylo is hard and overwhelmed and entirely at Hux’s mercy. Hux smells absolutely amazing in a way that he hadn’t on Jakku, because on Jakku, they’d all been covered by sand and dust and had been gross from the length of the walk they’d done, and Hux had still been attractive then—but Hux, now, in his casual clothing, with the faint scent of cinnamon and the taste of strawberry ice cream on his lips—

Hux, now, is completely irresistible.

“Dance with me,” Hux breathes.

“It’s the middle of the afternoon,” Kylo says.

“I don’t care,” Hux replies. “There will be a club open somewhere. Dance with me right here. We have time to kill, Kylo, do it with me.”

Kylo swallows.

Hux takes another lick from his ice cream, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before he opens them, stares directly at Kylo again.

“Kylo,” he says.

“Anything,” Kylo says, immediately. “You wanna dance? We can dance, Armitage.” He’s entranced, completely, by the way that the sunlight is catching on Hux’s eyelashes, the red-gold of his hair. He wants to put his hand up Hux’s sweater. Down the back of Hux’s pants. Wants to strip off his shoes and pick Hux up so that he doesn’t need to put his bare feet on the sidewalk.

Hux laps up more ice cream, presses his lips against Kylo’s, tongues the ice cream right into Kylo’s mouth, where it melts and dissolves into liquid that Kylo swallows back. It tastes like strawberries and vanilla, it tastes how Kylo imagines Hux’s nipples taste, it tastes like sex and freedom and a complete lack of responsibility.

“You’re so responsive,” Hux breathes. “I can’t wait to have you in me. Against me.”

“I’m going to strip off all your clothes,” Kylo says. “Touch you everywhere. I’m going to open you up on my fingers and I’m going to fuck you so good. Gonna get to see those faces in person, finally, and that adorable cock of yours.”

“You’ve seen pictures of my cock,” Hux says, making direct eye contact. “I sent you seventeen of them.”

“I want eighteen,” Kylo says, aching with it—want and desire and lust all wrapped up, and Hux, in person, right here in front of him. “Twenty. Three hundred. We can’t go back from this—this is everything, right here. You and me, and nothing else matters.”

“Nothing else matters,” Hux breathes, and then they’re kissing again, and the entire world fades away.

*

They’re dancing in the middle of a public square, to music that only they can hear. Kylo’s heartbeat is synchronized with Hux’s own, and this is all he’s ever wanted—he’s never not felt lonely before, and the absence of that ache in his heart makes him feel like he’s floating, suspended in the air.

“I won’t let anyone take you from me,” Kylo breathes. He’s never felt this weightless before.

Hux laughs, hooks his fingers into Kylo’s belt loop at the same time that he squeezes Kylo’s hand. “Who could possibly take me away from you?” he says. “I wouldn’t go, you realize,” he says. “Couldn’t be paid to do it.” He presses his lips briefly against Kylo’s neck. “Such a powerful boyfriend I have,” he purrs. “So strong.”

“It’s all for you,” Kylo says. “Everything I do is—it’s for you.”

“Give it to me,” Hux says, voice low and throaty. “All of it, I want it.”

“We should go back to the hotel,” Kylo says. His cock is hard and his heart is pounding and his hands are shaking. There’s sweat beading on his lower back under his tunic. “Armitage, can we just—?”

“It’s early,” Hux says. “But…”

“But?”

“Yes,” Hux breathes, and his breath is cold and sweet. “Let’s walk back, Kylo.”

“...if we’re early, they won’t let us in?”

“Do you drink, Kylo?”

“Not really.”

“Do you mind if I do?”

“No.”

“Let me do this, then,” Hux says, eyes glinting with excitement. “Let’s go back to the hotel. We’ll get a drink if the room isn’t ready. If the room is ready—well, then. We’ll do what we came here to do.”

“Yes,” Kylo says.

“Unless you want to stay here.”

Kylo hesitates, pulls back a little. “Stay?”

“Well,” Hux says casually. He laps at his ice cream (peach, this time), swallows it back with a pleased little half-smile on his face. “You could buy me more ice cream. I could sit on your lap. We could watch the sun set.”

“Or we could do that tomorrow,” Kylo says. “Or the day after. I don’t care, Hux, I don’t—I just want to go to the hotel.” He swallows, hard, reaches out and places his hand over Hux’s, aware that his own is shaking. “It’s been forever since Jakku. I haven’t thought about anything but this. Can I—can I get you ice cream for the way back? I want to go back.”

“Naughty boy,” Hux says. “You’re that eager, are you?”

“Yes,” Kylo growls. “I want you naked. I want you pressed up against a wall. I want to count every single one of your eyelashes. I want to feed you berries by hand, one by one by one. I want to count your ribs with the tips of my fingers.” He reaches out, places his hand on Hux’s ribcage.

Hux shies away, bites his lip. “Kylo,” he says throatily. “I want that. I want it so badly.”

“We should have it,” Kylo says. “We deserve it. Armitage. Let’s go.”

Hux hesitates—and then laps at his ice cream once more, and brushes down the front of his shorts with his other hand, removing lint that Kylo can’t see. “Alright then,” he says, still as business-like as ever. “Let’s head back to the hotel.”

He extends his hand.

Kylo reaches out and takes it.

*

The walk back to the hotel takes ages.

Kylo is miserably aroused, and Hux is so happy that Kylo can’t bear to hurry him along, and so he lingers behind his soulmate, watches as Hux is just—bare and exposed and vulnerable, in public. He’s smiling at Kylo—actual honest smiles, not the quirk at the corner of his mouth he uses in private. He’s visiting with shopkeepers. He bends down in the middle of the street to let some little furry animal lap at the last melted little bits of ice cream from his cone, and then crouches there, shorts tight on his pert little ass, while the animal licks at his palm, and Hux actually lets it.

_We should go_ , Kylo wants to say, but then Hux turns to him, and smiles.

“Look,” he says. “Look how adorable it is, Kylo. Who’s a good little tooka, hmm?”

Kylo swallows it back, nods stiffly.

Hux watches him for a moment, before smiling slyly. “Oh, Kylo,” he says. “You should have said something.”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t—”

“Your ears are pink,” Hux says casually. He glances down the length of Kylo’s body, and then back up to Kylo’s face. “And your—well.”

“You’re never scared to look at me,” Kylo blurts.

Hux chuckles, reaches out and grabs Kylo’s hand with a palm that’s slightly sticky, and slightly damp with tooka-spit. “Don’t be silly,” he says. “Let’s head back to the hotel.”

*

Kylo bounces on the balls of his feet while Hux sanitizes his hands at the front entrance, jams his own hands under the sanitizer when Hux raises an eyebrow at him. The walk back to the hotel did not calm him down, and sanitizing his hands is not calming him down, and he’s not entirely certain that he’s capable of being calmed down at this point.

Hux takes one look at him, gaze lingering at Kylo’s hips. “Let’s go get a drink,” Hux says.

Kylo shakes his head, bites his lip.

“Words?” Hux asks. He extends his hand, palm up. “Tap on my palm if you’d rather—”

“No, I, uh.” Kylo swallows. “The front desk—”

“They said sixteen hundred hours,” Hux says calmly.

Kylo nods. “Yeah, I just—” He swallows. He’s so hard. His heart is pounding so quickly, echoing in his ears. “I’m looking forward to this—”

“So am I,” Hux says. He steps closer, into Kylo’s space. “It’s twenty eight minutes until sixteen hundred hours. You’re about to divest me of my virginity. I would like a drink.”

Kylo nods his head again. He can feel something building up in the back of his skull, tension from suppressing all the noise around them, everyone else’s voices fading into a dull roar until all he hears is Hux. All he can focus on is Hux. “I can see your eyelashes,” he says. “They’re nearly transparent, did you know?”

Hux chuckles. “No one has ever remarked on it before,” he says. And then—“Thank you, Kylo,” as an afterthought.

Kylo’s chest clenches. “You’re welcome,” he says, and his voice shakes.

Fuck, he wants it so bad. He wants Hux so bad. He needs this. He needs it now. He needs—

*

“Gin and tonic, please,” Hux is saying to the bartender.

Kylo swallows. They’re in—they’re in the bar now, he’s followed Armie here, and the decor is—fuck, he misses the Finalizer, this is all—technicolour lights and archaic tourist curlicues, and it’s pretentious, and he just wants—he just wants Hux, he wants—

“‘Here,” Hux says. He presses something into Kylo’s hand.

Kylo looks down at it. It’s fizzing, whatever it is. Pale pastel pink, with something purple crusted on the rim of the cup.

“Yours is non-alcoholic,” Hux says. “Come, sit down with me. Over here, back to the wall, you’ll be able to see everything.”

Kylo tightens his grip on the glass, follows Hux over to the corner booth, far away from everything else. Hux gestures him in—and Kylo slides into the booth, fully expecting Hux to slide in next to him.

Hux does—and then he keeps sliding until he’s sitting right in Kylo’s lap.

Kylo bites his tongue.

Hux shifts, grinds his adorable ass down against Kylo.

“Much better,” Hux says lightly.

“I’m looking forward to this,” Kylo breathes against his neck. “I’ll rub my cock right between  your ass cheeks. Going to open you up so wide, going to—fuck, Hux, I can’t—”

“You can,” Hux breathes. “Nineteen minutes.” He rolls his hips again, and Kylo shudders, presses his forehead against Hux’s shoulder.

“Take off all your clothes,” he mutters into Hux’s shoulder. Sticks his tongue out and licks the leather harness, then bites down on the top of Hux’s shoulder.

“Mmm,” Hux says. “What will you do after you’re done with me? Will you go back to work, leave me on the bed?”

“No work to do,” Kylo murmurs. “Not on this planet.” He sets his drink down on the table, puts his hands on Hux’s hips. It’s all he can do to not grip Hux tightly, tug him back against Kylo’s chest. It’s like Jakku all over again—he’s achingly hard, and he just wants to rut up against Hux, wants to take Hux apart right here—but he can’t, because Hux is adorable, just like this, perched on Kylo’s lap and drinking his gin and tonic, his face slightly flushed. Kylo doesn’t want anything to ruin this moment.

He can’t have anything ruin this moment.

“Ah, right,” Hux says. “You’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be on a mission.” He takes a sip from his drink, shifts on Kylo’s lap. “I’m your co-commander. So—give me a mission report.”

“We’re not on duty,” Kylo whines.

Hux turns his head, nuzzles at the side of Kylo’s face. “Mission report,” he breathes. “It’s not much longer now, Kylo. Come on.”

Kylo squeezes his eyes shut. “I was sent to locate Poe Dameron. Intel indicated that he was on planet prior to my arrival, but had left before I got there. I followed up on the remaining leads, pulled together a possible itinerary for his visit, and interviewed everyone I could. My tracker is, uh, my tracker is back with my shuttle, and I’m here for—for leisure time, after the conclusion of which I will complete my investigation, and then anticipate returning to the—” Kylo swallows, inhaling Hux’s scent from the base of his neck. Cinnamon. Aftershave. _Hux_. “I’d like to return to the Finalizer,” he says softly, opening his eyes. “I want to be stationed there permanently.”

Hux reaches down, squeezes Kylo’s hand in his. “I’ll make it happen,” he says. “We’re nearly there, Kylo—drink your drink, love.”

*

There’s salt on Kylo’s tongue, purple crystals crunching in his molars when he closes his mouth. Hux has the keycard to the hotel room, and he’s marching down the minimally decorated hall ahead of Kylo, swinging his hips and humming to himself. Kylo wants to race to catch up with Hux, pick him up and throw him over his shoulder, break into the room and toss Hux down on the bed—but this, the steady pace of one foot and then the other, is the only thing that’s keeping Kylo sane right now.

He should have had something alcoholic. Maybe it would have calmed his nerves. Hux looks calm, Hux looks centered. Kylo is shaking. There’s just so much riding on this—he’s been celibate his entire life, broken it only for Jakku—but that was Jakku and this is...this is going to be much more intense because this is the beginning of everything for them, this is Kylo and Armitage, together as one, unstoppable together. Not a damn thing will come between them after this because they’ll be inseparable and all powerful, whole and complete and—

Hux places the keycard over the hotel room door, and the light flashes green for a moment, before the door hisses open. Hux gazes into the room, and then looks back over his shoulder at Kylo. “So?” he says.

Kylo swallows. Puts his hands behind his back in an imitation of Hux’s parade rest—but Hux’s eyes immediately dart down. He’s staring, blatantly, at Kylo’s cock.

“So,” Kylo repeats. His voice is low, gravelly. He wants Hux so badly, he wants—

“I’m ready,” Hux says. “Are you?”

“I want it,” Kylo says.

“Come get it,” Hux responds—and he slips inside the hotel room.

Kylo holds the door open with the Force, and follows after his soulmate, lets the door shut behind them and crowds Hux up against the wall. “I want this to be perfect,” he breathes into Hux’s neck.

Hux puts his arms around Kylo's shoulders, wraps his legs around Kylo’s waist. The overhead lights are off, and the wall lights are on, casting a dim purple glow over everything. Hux’s skin is luminescent, and Kylo wants to fuck him on every single surface in this vast hotel room, wants to punctuate the weekend by fucking Hux up against the floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the room, with the privacy screens turned off so that everyone can see what they’re doing.

“Uh-huh,” Hux says, kissing Kylo, and rolling his hips. “Get my holster off.”

“You don’t need that here,” Kylo murmurs. “I’d protect you.  With the Force.”

“Oh, from all the miscreants breaking into our honeymoon suite? I’m terrified.” Hux kisses Kylo again, shifts and tongues Kylo’s ear. “Take it off,” he breathes. “I’m serious, I’m not taking my hands off your shoulders—are you aware how big your arms are? They’re gorgeous.”

Kylo uses the Force to undo the holster, brushes it off Hux’s shoulders and latches his mouth onto Hux’s collarbone.

“My boots,” Hux breathes. “Get those off too.”

Kylo undoes them with the Force, drops them on the floor. He can hardly breathe. His entire world is Hux. Hux in his arms, Hux against his body, Hux surrounding him, Hux, Hux, _Hux_ —

“Strip for me,” Hux breathes.

“Wanna fuck you like this,” Kylo murmurs. “I have to.”

“Haven’t been sleeping well enough to make a mess of your sheets?” Hux teases. “All pent up?”

“It’s been days,” Kylo says. “Hux, I’m dying.”

“You won’t die,” Hux says. “Come on—let me down. I want to watch you strip. Slowly. Take your time with it.”

“I don’t need time,” Kylo whines. “I don’t—”

“I do,” Hux says gently. “I want to come with your cock in me—I don’t want to come on your abs, and if you let me keep rubbing up on you, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

Kylo takes a deep breath, lets go of Hux’s bare thighs. Lets Hux slide down the wall and get his feet under him, and then watches as Hux saunters over to the massive round hoverbed that dominates most of the room.

“You want me to strip?” Kylo asks.

“Yes,” Hux says, brushing white flower petals onto the floor and then settling himself onto the edge of the bed. “I want you to strip.”

Kylo takes a deep breath. His heart is pounding and his fingertips are tingling. He grabs either side of his leather jacket, tries to concentrate. Stares down at his hands. He’s going to make this good for Hux. He’s going to make this so good—

“Drop your jacket,” Hux says intensely.

Kylo looks up at Hux through his lashes, brushes his hair behind his ears. It’s nerve-racking to be like this, with feet of space between them, and nothing for Kylo to do but take off his clothes and hope that it’s good—

—it’s not Jakku, it’s more intense than Jakku, they’ve waited so long and they’re both so ready and it’s going to be exactly as the Force wills it—

—and it’s going to be good, Kylo is going to make it good, and Hux is perfect just the way that he is, and—

“Are you waiting for credit chips?” Hux asks, grinning up at him. He spreads his legs slightly on the bed, makes a show of grinding his palm against his cock. “I’ll toss them to you, let you scoop them up off the floor.”

“This is a high-class establishment,” Kylo says, sauntering forward before running his hands down the front of his jacket, shrugging the leather off his shoulders. “I’m not picking up my own credit chips, I’ll get a droid for that.”

“Pity,” Hux says, staring at Kylo’s bare arms. “I’d like to see you bending over.”

Kylo swallows. Tosses his jacket to the side, hangs it on the hook back by the door with a gesture. “I’ll do it,” he says. “After I’ve fucked the hell out of you.”

“Sounds like a threat,” Hux responds. His eyes are glinting, and he’s smiling so hard that his teeth are showing. “Are you threatening me, Kylo?”

“I would never,” Kylo breathes.

“Take off your shirt.”

“Yes, General.” Kylo reaches behind himself, grabs the back of his tunic and hikes it over his head, tosses it on the ground, exposes his chest to Hux. His hands are shaking again, and he feels so naked, just wants to press up against Hux and rut him into the mattress, slide his cock right in there, get Hux’s virginity and Kylo’s chastity completely out of the way, move into the next portion of their lives together, the part of their lives where he’s part of Hux, part of Hux completely, where he’s Hux’s right-hand man, where Hux only has to snap his fingers, and Kylo will—

“I want to fuck your chest,” Hux says. He’s grinding against his palm still, legs spread wide and face flushed. “Get my cock right in there, right between your pecs.”

“I’d let you,” Kylo breathes. He’s trying to get himself under control. He wants to stride confidently toward the bed, gather Hux up in his arms, but he’s scared the moment he steps forward he’s just going to break into a run, collide with Hux, smother him with his body. He reaches down and thumbs the button on his tight pants, flicks it open. “Do you want me—do you want me pantsless, or do you want to—to grind for a bit, or should I—”

“I’m going to take my shirt off,” Hux says. He’s still staring at Kylo’s chest. “And I’m going to lie back on this bed, and you can come grind your cock on me—do you want us to come like that, or do you want to get right to the main event?” His hand comes up and tugs at the collar of his sweater, pulls it down to expose his collarbone, and the slight discolouration right underneath—

“Main event,” Kylo says. He squints a little, trying to decipher—

“Of course,” Hux breathes. “Virginity, and all.” He gives a tight little grin. “Take me,” he says. “I can’t wait to have you inside.” He grips the bottom of his sweater, and then pulls it over his head.

Kylo can’t breathe.

Hux’s chest is—

—his chest, it’s—

—marked with—

_such a disappointment, Kylo_

—scars from Force lightning, the entire thing, from his neck all the way to his hips, and every single scar is fresh—angry and bruise-purple, criss-crossing over Hux’s pale chest, and Hux is laughing as he tosses his sweater aside, mouth open and eyes bright and—

“What?” Hux says, his smile faltering, and his hands coming up to his neck, forearms covering his chest.

Kylo shakes his head, takes a step back. “No,” he says.

“Kylo?”

“No,” Kylo repeats. “No, no, no—”

“I don’t—”

“Your hands,” Kylo says. His heart is pounding so hard that his molars are vibrating, and he can feel the floor jittering under his feet. “Drop your hands”

Hux looks down at himself, and then back up at Kylo. Does as Kylo asks, and puts his hands down by his sides, baring his space-pale chest, marred by traces of torture.

“This isn’t happening,” Kylo says. “This doesn’t—this isn’t—I can’t—I refuse…”

Hux’s mouth twists in a scowl. “Oh, come off it,” he snaps.

“ _No_ ,” Kylo roars. He flings out his hand, and the wall on the opposite side of the room crumples in a fist-shaped dent. It doesn’t help. He still can’t breathe. He’s shaking. All he sees is—

“Kylo—”

“How long,” Kylo demands. His hands are—his hands are burning, and he can hear Snoke breathing, can see in his minds-eye that twitch in Snoke’s hands right before everything is all blue-white fire and pain and suffering and knees hitting the floor and back hitting the wall and—

“Don’t do this,” Hux says stiffly. “Not now.”

“How _long_?” Kylo yells. His fingers ache, his entire body is consumed by heat. “How long has he been doing this to you?”

“Longer than he has to you,” Hux says bitterly. “It’s part of the _job_ , Kylo.”

Kylo screams, unintelligible and wordless, something that tears out of his chest and echoes in the vast space of the honeymoon suite, and it doesn’t help, he still feels like he’s falling apart—

Hux stands up, moves away from the bed. His chest is flushing red now, and it makes the purple rope-welts from the Force lightning stand out even more than they were, a brutal network of violence on his space-pale skin. Kylo knows exactly how each welt will feel under his fingertips because it’s the same as his feel under his own fingertips after every single meeting with Snoke. Kylo is never able to measure up—but Snoke doesn’t believe that Hux is measuring up either, and Kylo understands that it’s different for him, he needs it, but there is no galaxy in which Hux falls short of anything—

“Don’t ruin this for us just because you had time to heal up in advance, Kylo.” Hux takes a step toward him, and then another.

Kylo opens his mouth, and no words come out because he cannot put voice to anything—

“You don’t need to speak,” Hux says tightly, extending his hands, palms up. “We can figure it out.”

Kylo shakes his head. There’s blood in his mouth. He can taste it on his tongue.

“Tap my palms?” Hux asks, still approaching Kylo slowly.

Kylo takes a step back, and then another.

Hux stops moving.

Kylo swallows. Blood slides down his throat, pools in his stomach. His tongue aches. He can feel the floor moving under his feet. The ceiling is shaking. His hands are shaking. He’s going to throw up, or pass out, or pull the entire room down on top of them, protect Hux with the Force in the exact way that Snoke hadn’t. Kylo is going to carry Hux out of the rubble of the hotel room and away from everything, heal the marks on his chest, do something to fix this even though it’s unfixable, it’s ruined, it’s—

(Someone is making a high-pitched keening sound. Hux’s mouth is closed. His mouth is closed and Kylo is—Kylo is—Kylo is—)

“Ren,” Hux snaps. “That’s _enough_.”

Kylo stills. His entire body is vibrating, and he’s going to shatter, explode into pieces. He wants to throw himself in the wall, put his fists through the durasteel, tear the walls apart with his teeth.

“Thank you,” Hux says, his shoulders finally relaxing. “Come here.”

“... _no_ ,” Kylo says, finally finding his voice. He can’t breathe except in great gasps, and there’s still not enough air getting into his lungs. His tongue throbs in his mouth, already swelling. “I can’t.”

Standing here, looking at the ruin of Hux’s chest, knowing that he couldn’t protect his soulmate—Kylo has already failed him. He just didn’t know until now.

Hux stares at him.

“This is not—this is _not_ what the Force wills,” Kylo says, his words heavy with the Force and the screams that he can’t entirely swallow back. “This cannot be—this cannot be the will of the Force. Not like this.”

Hux’s face is pale, and his chest is a mess of welts and Force lightning bruises, and Kylo cannot handle looking at him for one more second without exploding, without tearing the entire room to shreds, without tearing the entire planet apart and devouring it, and that won’t fix anything, that won’t fix what’s happening, that won’t—

There’s a scream building in Kylo’s chest—Kylo would have prevented this if he’d known—but he hadn’t known, and he’s going to lay waste to everything, he’s going to—he’s going to—he’s going to end up screaming or doing something stupid, he’s going to—

This is not the will of the Force.

This is not where he’s supposed to be.

This is not how this is supposed to happen.

Kylo gestures, and the door blows apart behind him, shattering into the hallway. He takes a breath, and it burns the entire way into his lungs, curls into his stomach. He is being torn apart. His mouth is coated with iron, like he’s shredded his tongue chewing durasteel.

With his eyes closed, all he sees is Hux—pale, injured, vulnerable. With his eyes open—nothing but red.

There’s only one of these things he can fix, and he turns on his heel, and stalks through the broken door into the hall. Throws his hands out behind him as he walks, rending deep grooves into the walls of the hotel with the Force, and then throws that same energy out in front, rippling the damage down the entire length of the hallway.

“ _Bring me a shuttle_ ,” he screams, and his words echo through the hotel, out onto the planet, into atmo. His hands ache. His heart is a burning coal in his chest, the red-hot precision of a laser, the unstable sparking energy of a kyber crystal, unable to be contained by a mere physical shell.

He looks back, and he can just barely feel Hux behind him, a small speck of ice, half-melted under the heat of everything.

Kylo faces forward and opens his soul.

Lets the rage take him.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Warnings:** Kylo still has public sex fantasies / brief joke about Kylo as a stripper, neither party is negative about it / Kylo is having some intrusive thoughts re: physically overpowering Hux even though he knows he won't and doesn’t / blood mention / description of scars
> 
> **End Notes:** and, in true avocado kylux fashion, there's the pit.
> 
> Also, just as a reminder--as per the posting schedule we mentioned in chapter one, there is a hiatus after chapter six, before we pick things up again with chapter seven.
> 
> There is a moodboard for this chapter, available on [twitter](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1081204661166706691), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/397033), and the [vast barren hellsite](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/181709614361/reach-out-and-touch-faith-chapter-5-hux-is-in).
> 
> There's an interview for this chapter over on [dreamwidth](https://ktula.dreamwidth.org/1977.html).
> 
> There’s also art!
> 
>  
> 
> [ from chapter three, by Jeusus](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/390104) (and it's absolutely gorgeous <3)
> 
>  
> 
> ktula is on [twitter](https://twitter.com/heyktula), [dreamwidth](https://ktula.dreamwidth.org/), and [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/ktula).
> 
> forautumniam is on [twitter](https://twitter.com/forautumniam), [dreamwidth](https://forautumn.dreamwidth.org/), and [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/forautumn)


	6. Empire of Dirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ren will be back soon. Any minute now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please refer to the end notes for **content warnings!**

Ren will be back soon. 

Any minute now.

He’ll come back, and they can start again.

Hux indulges himself in a fantasy of ruined walls repairing themselves, the debris falling back into place, piece by piece, and the dented wall of the honeymoon suite evening out; it’d be like a ripple in water, played backwards. He imagines Ren walking away from the bed, putting on clothes: a fixed button, the fabric of the tunic enveloping him, the tight hug of the leather jacket.

_“Main event,” Ren says. Squints a little._

_“Of course,” Hux breathes. “But we should talk first.”_

Hux squeezes his eyes shut.  Blinks them open. The room is still ruined. He can see it through the thin veil of smoke. He puts the cigarra to his lips, forces himself to inhale.

He needs this so he won’t go insane.

He needs to think.

*

This is what he tells the staff: the door has short-circuited. Triggered a small-scale explosion in the biogaspipes. A terrible accident. He throws in enough technical nonsense that they believe him.

“I’m an engineer,” he says, leaning against the melted doorframe, a bathrobe hanging around him. Like he has a right to be here.  Money can buy everything in the New Republic, maybe even truth is for sale; maybe he can pretend to have it, and be granted peace in exchange.

There’s no reason to suspect that a human being is capable of this devastation. The sheer scale of the damage is inconceivable. The hotel staff investigating are marveling at the ruin, and keep giving him amazed glances. He’s not a suspect: he’s the star witness.

“It’s sheer dumb luck my husband and I weren’t injured,” he says. His heart thuds at calling Ren that, but he’s selling a story here. He’s selling it so when Ren comes back they’ll have a place to sit down and talk. So that Hux can offer him his palm, and won’t be refused.

*

 **General Hux** : Relocated to room 6767. I’d appreciate if you could come see me, but any sort of communication you prefer (from texting to a holocall or talking on the comm) is perfectly fine by me.

 **General Hux** : Please know that I’m not mad.

*

Room 6767 is facing the honeymoon suite. He accidentally overheard the staff referring to it as the bachelor’s nook; it lives up to its name. Hux imagines that busybodies crossing through the galaxy might appreciate it: the design is state-of-the-art and incredibly elegant—all the grandiose luxury of the honeymoon suite is packed in here. It’s losing its charm by the minute: the round bed is impractical for such a small room, the mood lighting make it look rather depressing, and there’s only one of everything: one night stand, one charger, one towel.

There’s also the complete lack of sex furniture.

Hux appreciated that in the honeymoon suite.

He appreciated the fragrant flowers, and the edible glitter and gold lube waiting on a tray, the hot tub, the sweeping landscape.

He left his door slightly ajar so he can watch the repair droids work on the suite, and so he can spot Ren when he returns—although no doubt, Ren will likely come back screaming his name, or crawling on his hands and knees, sobbing. Anyhow, there will be a scene. Hux must be ready to intervene swiftly; to assure Ren that all is well—that he should have said _pause_ and _stop_ , and he should have texted back, but all is forgiven. He will let Ren lay his head in his lap, stroke his hair. Talk through what happened; ask him about his reaction to the scars, the cryptic comment on the will of the Force, and what he shouted in the hallway. ( _Bring me a shullll_ —it was inarticulate.)

 _—white-hot anger, those bruise purple marks—_  

 

(It didn’t sound human.) 

 _—Kylo’s throat is raw, chest aching, he screams—_  

Hux takes a drag from his cigarra. He’s steadily making his way through the package, lighting one, then another; he was saving them—they were to be after-sex cigarras, shared in a thoroughly debauched bed. Ren must forgive him this small selfishness: Hux deserves the calmness of the ritual.

_—corpses of the Attendants slumped down over the wreckage of the oculus, puppets with cut strings. The Praetorians come at him and he crushes their windpipes and steals their voices, a wave of silence extending outward, a wave of silence after the screams. This never should have happened but he’ll make this right because it’s what Hux deserves—_

*

 **General Hux** : I am rather upset, to be perfectly honest, but I do not blame you for the hurtful things that have been said. You were clearly shocked; I should have anticipated such reaction. Please talk to me so we can work through it. Both of us need it, dearly.

*

_—jackboots echoing in the corridor and Kylo gestures, destroying the door mechanism so that it cannot be opened and they will not be disturbed—_

*

Hux is not worried. He refuses to be. He also desperately needs to pee, but he doesn’t want to be caught in such a humiliating position when Ren comes back. He doesn’t want an awkward shuffle in the bathroom, either. So he’s sitting with legs crossed, the splendid bathrobe from the honeymoon suite covering his wounded chest.

It’s silly of Ren to be so upset about it, but Hux understands squicks.

He also knows Ren doesn’t like surprises.

He knows it was supposed to be perfect.

  
_—red armor cracked and splintered and damaged, irreparably ruined—_

He had smeared some bacta on his chest on the way here, on the shuttle, the trim of his sweater held between his teeth. He had a tiny tube of bacta saved in case of small anal tears; he used as much as he dared, so he could save some for later, and wouldn’t spoil his sweater. He didn’t anticipate that a dark warrior like Ren would object to the sight of a little bit of scarring. 

_—feasting on it all, every injury, every wound, every torment he inflicts bringing him more and more power for revenge—_

Admittedly, he was quite surprised himself when he first saw the kind of scar lightning leaves: purple-red bolts of pain—like an imprint of electricity marring the flesh. He knows, from experience, that it heals slowly; he also knows it heals completely.

_—gout of arterial spray, his fingertips warm—_

So what’s the fucking issue?

_—cannot stop until he knows that this will not happen again, that this cannot happen again, that his desire and ability to protect his soulmate will not be undermined by anything when it is within Kylo’s power to prevent any harm from being done to him—_

What is Ren’s fucking problem?

* 

 **General Hux** : Please, pick up your comm. You don’t have to talk; I’d appreciate if you would listen, though.

 **General Hux** : I’m still in Room 6767.

 **General Hux** : Had to bribe technician who wasn’t buying my story. Drained five months’ savings.

 **General Hux** : But we don’t have to talk about finances.

 **General Hux** : We just have to talk.

*

_—there are announcements going over the comm and Kylo doesn’t hear them, sirens blaring ship-wide and he tunes them out. He slams body after body back against the door until there is nothing but silence, and no one can interrupt because he will not be distracted, he will have his say, he will—_

*

Hux is reapplying the bacta, everything he has left, the door to the fresher open. He has a towel prepared so when Ren enters he can cover himself up, save him another shock. It’s offensive, to a degree, that Ren would be so _disgusted_ —

( _It’s not about disgust,_ he reminds himself. _It’s about—_ )

What is it about?

( _It’s about the will of the Force._ )

He makes a face in the mirror. He sure as hell hopes Ren won’t forget to cloak himself; he must still be around the hotel—roaming the streets half-naked, distracted; if he’s not careful, someone will see him and think they saw Ben Solo.

Alert the police.

_The lost prince is here. He looks insane._

_—grabs the underside of the helmet and pulls, clenches his fist and punches, bone-crack, blood-spatter and red armor, throws that body aside and starts in on the next. The air is crackling and someone is screaming, but it’s not him this time, it’s not him—_

 

*

 **General Hux** : You should know that I am open to telepathic communication, if it’s easier for you to establish that sort of connection. You said something about the will of the Force—could you explain it to me?

*

Hux has a hexagon wrench in hand and he tells himself he’s happy; content, at least. He’s tightening a screw in the delayed action valve of the ruined door, running through schematics in his head.

He asked the droids if he could join them.

(He gave an order.)

It takes his mind off matters.

Besides, he loves the idea of Ren finding him like this, witnessing what he missed: Hux on his knees, arse out, Ren’s tunic covering his shorts so it looks like he’s naked underneath. No scars down there; nothing _objectionable_. Ren would want him again, whatever the Force says.

Hux touches his fingers to the actuating cylinder while a repair droid chirps at him. The damage doesn’t make sense. He cannot tell whether the durasteel reacted to a collision or heat, whether it was a contained explosion or if it melted from acid. It’s just _ruined_ in every possible way. If there’s one thing he hates about the Force, if he had to choose his top one reason from an itemised list, it’d be that the Force doesn’t abide by the laws of physics.

_—shoves his hand out, red light crackling—_

A Force-choke feels like invisible hands around your neck; but it also feels like something is pushing back from the _inside_. Pushes are similar: something invisible grabs your ankles, yanks you close, but there’s an almost magnetic pull, something inexplicable and unavoidable, so there’s no way to wiggle free from the grip, because every atom in your body is rushing towards the wall. You hear a _clang_ , a hollow, horrible sound when you make contact, but what’s even worse is that you don’t hear anything _breaking_ , even though your bones should—

_—crunch and shatter, white bits and gore and—_

“What have you done,” Hux mutters. Keeps fixing Ren’s mess.

*

He locates a selection of craft beer in the minibar. He bets the honeymoon suite has wine and champagne, whiskey, even, and briefly entertains the thought of sneaking back there, helping himself to them—but money is becoming a concern. So he drinks the beer.

He makes a select choice. Starts slowly. Takes tiny sips between checking his datapad and typing out messages he’ll regret, _where are you, please give me a signal_ , then the beer is gone, so he gets another bottle.

He shouldn’t get drunk. He needs to be his best self when Ren comes back. He’ll give him a piece of his mind, but it shouldn’t escalate to an argument. He can’t scare him away again.

(Also. He should be sober enough to consent. He doesn’t mind losing his virginity to makeup sex.)

The alcohol dulls his senses, but he still feels sick. His throat is raw from cigarras, his tongue tastes bitter from the beer, his stomach keeps rumbling, but he’s not going to call room service. His rectum should be _pristine_. He wants Ren to eat him out. That’d do for an apology.

At one point he disappears into the bathroom with a sonic enema. Just in case. Squatting in the shower he almost wishes Ren would enter this very minute, find him like this, _it’s not sexy, it’s not cute, it’s me._

_Do you want me?_

He downs another beer and prepares to throw up, but the relief never comes.

*

The lights in the room change. It’s getting late. There are—chances missed.

They can no longer pick up where they left off, before everything went to shit. They’d have to have an additional discussion: _where have you been? Why haven’t you replied? What’s going on? Are you all right?_

He has horrible images in his head about accidents—Ren coming back to the hotel with a bouquet of wildflowers, he’s _like that_ , but there’s a speeder and a drunk driver, there’s a Rebel fighter, a whole gang of them, there’s been an abduction, or maybe fire, flood, a kriffing _meteor_ hitting the planet unannounced, just where Ren stands with his bouquet of flowers—but he knows it’s all nonsense, because Ren is indestructible.

He’s not being held prisoner; Leia Organa is not there; he’s not being forced to reunite with his family, and a meteor is not enough to wipe him out.

Conclusion: if Ren is staying away, he’s staying away by his own will.

Even if Snoke summoned him—

_—you hurt him, Kylo roars and Snoke’s hand lifts—_

—he would respond, he’d reach out. He would, unless he’s dead, or horribly injured. But he cannot be that. Therefore, he doesn’t _want_ to talk to Hux, won’t even give him the fucking courtesy of a message saying _stop bothering me_. Ren wouldn’t be bothered though; he loves Hux. (He does.) And if he loves him, he would call, unless of course—

Hux presses his wrists to his eyes, groans.

He needs more beer, and cigarras, and _Ren_.

He needs them as soon as possible.

*

The night expands.

Guests are returning to their rooms, chatting about sightseeing and technicalities and gossip; families, couples, business partners, and Ren is not among them.

 _You can’t report a missing person until twenty-four standard hours have passed_ , Hux reminds himself. _It’s because they tend to turn up on their own during this timeframe. So just wait._

_You just wait, you just wait._

_Keep waiting._

*

  
_—Kylo is fire and blood, the bone-crack of electricity and the stink of charred flesh. His hand is outstretched, and red lightning crackles from his fingertips, and he is completely, entirely, calm, channeling his rage outward and in—_

* 

He can’t work, because he’s on leave.

The repairs are finished for the day.

He can’t watch holos; he wouldn’t be able to concentrate, and he doesn’t want Ren to think he’s been _okay_ , that he just stayed in bed and watched rom-coms. He wants Ren to know he’s been miserable. Wants him to see, so he doesn’t even have to say it, so there won’t be accusations thrown around, Ren will just look at him— _shit baby, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I can explain—_

_There’s a perfectly good explanation—_

_—everything is red light and burning agony. Kylo is doing this for him—_

He discovers that the lighting has several settings. That’s what’s it all come to: he’s sitting on the floor cross-legged, Ren’s musky scent surrounding him, and he’s watching the lights bleed into red, when he should be napping on Ren’s wide chest, aching all over, lube and come sliding down his thighs, a finger in his fucked-out hole, Ren preparing him for round twenty-two, lips pressed to his jaw, _I’ve got you, I’m here_ —

The lights have a setting called _rainy afternoon_. It’s quite pleasant. It’d look flattering on his naked form. Hide the shadows of the scars.

(They’re mostly gone.)

He flips through _evening snow, midnight sun, celestial glow,_ and stops at _desert moon_. He hates it. He fucking hates sitting here, basking in the lights of Jakku, of long-ago, it’s been an eternity since the tent, since Ren had—

Accepted everything—

And when religion—

His fucking faith—

Purity—

Was—

Not—

He shocks himself with a sob. Surely, he’s not sitting here sobbing, when Ren could come back any minute. He would deserve seeing Hux like this, but Hux doesn’t want his pity. He needs to be composed, calm; that’s what is expected of him. He rubs his nose with a fist, rather aggressively. If the door wasn’t still half-open, he’d slap himself.

_Get it together._

He settles on biting his tongue. Counts to ten.

Switches to _Northern lights_. That’s better.

*

The trip to the ‘fresher is a kriffing nightmare. They have a water-based shower; Hux gives it a longing glance, but he settles for the sonic, because it’s quicker and much more thorough. He didn’t close the ‘fresher door, so from a certain angle, he’s committing public indecency, but he cannot risk losing the moment when Ren crosses the threshold, he aches to see it. Ren is sure to enter at the most inappropriate minute, so Hux relieves himself with his shoulders hunched and a firm reminder _not_ to turn around when he hears Ren’s surprised gasp.

_—Armitage?—_

But Ren is nowhere.

Hux is out of booze and nicotine, and he’s out of things to do, and he’s not used to being alone with his thoughts. He’s pacing the room in a bathrobe, then starts worrying about people reporting the noise, so he sits down on the edge of the bed.

Back straight.

Eyes ahead.

Like a droid that has been left without orders.

He could do calculations.

He could—

It’s past two.

He has to stay alert. Keep waiting. Ren will be back.

He should stop sending him messages so Ren can read the early ones. Those are calm, well-worded, unlike the latest ones that are evidence of his—less dignified moments.

_come back come back come back_

Ren hasn’t read any of them.

_—has to be certain that he is dead—_

 

*

He jolts awake and curses himself for dozing off. Goes to wash his face: Ren can’t find him with drool drying on his cheeks, crust in his eyes, sideburns shaggy.

He looks like shit though. Not just mildly upset, which he wants to project: his eyes are wet, red-rimmed with purple bags, his lips are gnawed raw, and he reeks of beer and stale cigarras.

He tugs at the belt of the bathrobe. Lets it fall open. The light is set to _pleasure cruise_. His injuries are entirely gone.

*

He can’t remember falling asleep on the ‘fresher’s mat.

He pictures Ren standing over him, as confused as he is.

But so be it.

He closes his eyes again, hugs his knees to his chest.

Sleeps dreamlessly.

*

His hand slams to the cobalt tiles of the sonic. He’s wanking furiously as cleansing vibrations wash over him. The curtain is pulled shut, but the door is still open—the hotel is fast asleep, but Ren will know what’s going on when he steps inside, he’s seen it, he’s familiar with it, the noises Hux makes and skin-on-skin.

He works himself raw but he’s too pent-up to come. Keeps pumping his chafed little cock, twist and yanks, not the slow strokes he prefers, the gentle touches. Imagines Ren kneeling in front of him, wide-eyed, lips trembling. _I’m sorry, let me help, can I make it better_ —

 _No, it’s perfect,_ Hux would tell him. _I want it exactly like this, I want—_

 _—in and out, more alive with every step, nearly to completion now—_  

He finds himself in bed, legs spread under the covers as a clever little machine fucks him open, moving like it has a _will_ , like all it wants is to fuck, stuff him full, vibrate, pulse. Hux chokes on his moans, head thrown back, biting down on his dogtags. He can be as quiet as he pleases, the way his hips move is still unmistakable, how he keeps bucking up, seeking friction for his aching cock, how his balls bob and his belly trembles.

He packed his favourite toys for this trip. Special ones; his treasures; he was ready to share pleasure.

He’s reaching for his bag that’s been dropped under the bed. There’s a nine-inch dong there, and he wants to choke on that. He wants nipple clamps and strokers, cuffs and a spreader bar, a collar and glitter, and he wants Ren. He wants to show him the hollow strap-on he made just for this date so he could fuck Ren deep and good, fuck him like Ren begged him to do during a holocall; Hux had to pause the scene himself when he noticed Ren’s eyes rolling back in his head. 

He wants to spank Ren.

He wants to milk his prostate.

Bend him over his knee when he comes back, and fingerbang a proper apology out of him. Make him lap up his own come, kiss Hux’s feet. He’d tell him it’s okay.

He feels his orgasm building up, how his body tightens and trembles, but his brain is too tired to register pleasure. He cries out, sure, and there’s a release of hormones, but he feels gutted and hollow. Legs closed, he rolls to his side, the toy slipping out of his arse in a pool of lube. He’s not looking forward to cleaning up, and sanitizing the toy, wrapping it up again.

But Ren will soon be back, so he’ll have to.

Just one more minute.

Just one more eternity, waiting.

*

_—Kylo is the only one left alive. He’s certain of it now. He sits down, puts his hand to the side of his face. There is a scrap of gold fabric on his boot. He picks it off, spits on it and lets it fall to the floor. His vision is blurred, coming in double, and his face hurts, but it’s safe now, he made it safe—_

*

Morning sneaks up on Hux. He’s in an overwarm cocoon of blankets, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to let Ren know that he’s awake; lets him just watch—he must be here, and soon, he’ll reach out to stroke Hux’s hair, to whisper _I’m back_ , to say _I’m here to stay_.

He probably found a lead.

Even if he didn’t think Poe Dameron had any useful information, he’d be obliged to follow through the mission. He wouldn’t be able to check messages, lest he—

(He would’ve written.)

(They’ve established this. _Excuse yourself before you leave_.)

Hux blinks awake. The room is empty.

*

He only has erotic briefs to wear, tiny leather affairs with straps. That’s not the main problem.

The main problem is the rest. The shiny vinyl shorts that end just above the curve of his ass. He thought it was a good idea. He thought he’d only put them on so Ren could take them off, open the zipper with his teeth, tear the fabric to get to his lonely cock.

He only wore them once, in his early twenties when he went clubbing, when he thought he could be that kind of person; he ended up spending the night by the bar downing too-sweet drinks and staring daggers at anybody who dared to look at him.

It’s a miracle the shorts still fit.

He’s checking out his buttocks in the entryway’s mirror when a tall shadow obscures the lights from the hallway. His heartbeat skips. He’s going to be sick; joy and relief bubbles up in his stomach, and a strained gasp escapes his lips as he looks up to see the reflection of a stranger.

It’s a Chiss guy. He looks Hux up and down, red eyes bright.

“Mind if I join?” he asks.

“Thanks, I’m taken,” Hux grits, crossing his arms in front of himself as if it’d make him any less exposed. No one should see him like this but Ren.

“Sorry, then.” The Chiss guy nods his head with an easy smile. He waves goodbye, and he’s gone—Hux looks after him, jaw clenched.

Was it this easy?

Was it this easy to get laid the _entire time_?

It’s too late now. He shouldn’t be standing around in open hotel rooms wearing slutty clothes—the thought of anybody but Ren touching him repels him. He goes to grab his tunic, pulls it over his head so he’s enveloped in Ren’s scent, so he’s covered and protected. He hugs himself tightly and stays in place, looking down at the city. Adorable little bridges arching over glowing blue waters, flowers running down the walls like waterfalls, the sunlight gold and thick like honey. Couldn’t be any more romantic.

He’s alone here.

He’s alone, still.

*

_—reaches out a little further, calling his name again—Armitage? Armitage, are you there?—_

*

There’s a sharp knock on the door, but Hux refuses to get up or turn in its direction. He’s lying on his side, hands between his thighs, grinding his teeth. He’s all right. He’s okay. The door is unlocked. Ren can fucking let himself in.

“Ax Egua Mirth?”

He pulls a face. What blasted nonsense.

( _My name_ , he realises. _The anagram_.)

Well. It sounds even more fake in the odd beeps of LEP models. He looks over his shoulder to peer at the rabbit droid.

“What,” he mutters, then adds, “Sorry.”

“Breakfast is served in twenty minutes, sir,” the droid chirrups, its long ear-like flaps arching up excitedly. Hux scowls at it.

“I didn’t order breakfast.”

“Key Lorn has ordered breakfast for two.”

 _Ren is here_ , Hux thinks, bolts upright. Pauses.

Of course. He pre-ordered it. Bed and breakfast.

“Oh,” he says. “I’m not hungry, sorry.”

“Do you wish to cancel the order, Mr. Mirth?”

“Is there a cancellation fee?”

“Twenty-five percent of the order.”

“How convenient,” Hux mutters. He’s so famished he’s nauseated. He can’t eat. No way.  But it’d be a shame to let resources go to waste, pay extra and—

It was thoughtful of Ren, to order breakfast—

He groans in frustration, looks at the droid.

“Come closer, please,” he says, clipped.

It’s easy to hack into its programming; it’s easy to make it stand guard while he’s gone, so as soon as it spots Mr. Lorn (human, six feet tall), it can tell him to go to the restaurant posthaste.

Hux still takes his comm and datapad, just in case.

*

The table is laden with creamy shrimp waffles, pineapple flambé pancakes, ubuuga caviar, pastries, berries dipped in chocolate, cakes, and lobster cooked in cognac. Hux is nursing a mimosa, staring down the breakfast for two; the sheer amount of food is nothing short of intimidating. How many portions must this be? It could nourish a battalion. Ren would no doubt manage to wolf it down, even ask for seconds.

Ren should be here, and feed him like he promised.

If he comes back, Hux will make him do just that, because then his stomach would no longer be twisted.

If he entered through that glass door now, if he would be—right here, at this exact moment, Hux would leap over the table. He would make a run for it, embrace him tightly—push him away, yell—kiss him, tear into his hair— _where have you been, I’ve been so worried—it’s been torture_ —

Or he could be civil. Stay in place. Offer a seat and nothing more, not even a handshake; talk about their arrangement as if it had been nothing but business. Set new rules, and just—look into his eyes, _behold him_ , bask in his presence, be assured that—

It was Ren’s choice to leave it all behind. It was Ren’s choice not to even call. He had it _planned out_. He even ordered _breakfast_. Hux will have to pay for it, because he’s not fucking here, and he’s not coming back, so Hux will have to solve this mess and _eat_ this mess, even though he’s kriffing sick, he could scream, he could scream, he could scream.

He pours oyster into his mouth so he doesn’t cause a scene. The texture surprises him. It’s slick and sticky and fills his mouth entirely; he wants to spit it out, but doesn’t dare to, so he lets it slide down his throat while he takes a deep breath through his nose. It tastes like saltwater, it’s like—

The smell—

He wants to go home, he doesn’t want to be here, what difference does it make, he should spend his shoreleave on Arkanis, he should get rained on, be caught in a storm, lose himself in the forest—

There used to be a house and a cat—

Damn the future, he was happy _then_ , he just needs to go _back._

Go back to the old days of the Empire.

Ren hasn’t even been _born_ then.

Ren was born when the Empire fell, concieved on the moon of Endor, a barbaric celebration while the death toll of Death Star Two kept rising in the news, and they said, _the Emperor is dead_ , Hux was watching the news with his cat, _the Emperor is dead_.

Arkanis has been besieged.

He’s an immigrant in space, losing his mother tongue and his memories day-by-day, keeps losing and losing and losing things, and all he has are—plans—

Failure is intolerable.

Failure to fulfill them.

He owes himself happiness, for all the times he suffered.

 _Take me out of here_ , he wants to beg. _Take me out, Kylo, let’s just go, let’s go home, can we please go?_

_This was a mistake._

_We don’t belong._

_Let’s go home._

*

He marches back to his room with a half-formed plan. He hears voices, and stops for a moment, hopeful, still, even in the face of logic, in the face of everything he believes in—

“You’re not tall enough to have that information,” the LEP droid says.

“Rubbish,” his visitor answers. Imperial accent. Hux knows his voice, only takes a minute to place it, but there’s no reason for a lieutenant to be here, unless— 

Unless the information is too sensitive to be forwarded in the form of a written message—

Unless the fleet has been attacked—

Unless Starkiller has been discovered—

Unless somebody is _dead_ —

“Report!” he snaps as he enters, and his yell startles poor Mitaka so much he visibly jumps. He’s always been skittish, but the face he makes—how pale he is—the bug-eyes, it must be something _terrible_ —

(Ren is dead.)

(No, Mitaka would be relieved.)

He’s made an attempt to look like a civilian, but it only meant stripping to his undershirt and losing the command cap; he reaches for it, but touches nothing, turns the gesture into a half-hearted salute after the door slides closed.

“You’ve been summoned, General,” he says, voice hardly a tremble. The LEP droid is watching him with round white eyes. Its memory will have to be wiped. What a pity.

“Do you wish me to remove the intruder, Mr. Mirth?” it beeps.

“Shut off, please.” Hux strides to the window with as much grace as someone wearing nothing but hotshorts and a tunic can manage, activates the privacy screen. He feels like Mitaka is staring at his ass. He doesn’t want to turn and check. “Well?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the landscape below.

“That was all the—Supreme Leader commanded. It was implied it’s—urgent.”

Hux grimaces. “He should know I’m on leave. If there’s been an emergency, kindly inform me.”

Mitaka makes a strangled sound. Hux peers at him, catches him rubbing his neck.

“Dopheld,” he says, softer. Mitaka looks at him; a krugga deer in the spotlights.

“Ren,” he says. That’s as far as he gets.

“Take me to him immediately.”

*

Hux is not worried—refuses to be—until they board the shuttle, and a fully-armoured Phasma is waiting for them. Ren is nowhere. Hux peers around, feeling like an idiot; Ren is _hard to miss_ , but he should be here, so maybe he just—hasn’t spotted him yet—

“General,” Phasma says.

“Prepare for take-off,” the droid pilot warns them. Hux take hold of the nearest handle, but refuses to sit. He needs to stay upright; back straight, chin up; he needs to _keep it together_ ,  jaw clenched and fingers digging into the flesh of his palm.

He’s still in civilian clothes.

There wasn’t time to change. He grabbed his bag, jumped into his boots, and _ran_.

“What the hell is going on?” he asks through gritted teeth  as the hyperdrive starts up.

Phasma inclines her helmet. “Funny you should ask that. It’s the same question I have.”

“I was on a holiday.”

“And see what happened. Please, never leave again.” She turns to poor Mitaka, who sits hunched over, cold sweat glistening over his forehead. “Lieutenant, cover your ears and hum the First Order anthem.”

“It’s instrumental,” Mitaka mumbles.

“You can still _hum it_ ,” Phasma says sternly.

Mitaka obeys. It starts to feel like a strange dream; like Hux’s consciousness has fled his body, and now he’s floating here, in this in-between place, punching through atmo as the anthem soars, low and glorious. Phasma walks up to him, and Hux wants to tell her _, I’m not here, you’re imagining things_.

_I’m in bed with my boyfriend._

_This is a nightmare._

_It’s all been a nightmare._

“Next time you stage a coup,” Phasma says, “do let me know in advance.”

_Nothing of this is real._

“I didn’t,” he says. “I didn’t stage a—”

_It’s not happening._

_Ren and I are on leave._

_Leave us be, leave us be, leave us—_

“Then I suppose what happened will be news to you.”

_—be._

He closes his eyes. Opens them. Phasma is still there, and Ren is—absent.

“Tell me.”

*

“There you are,” Ren says, voice softer than dark velvet. He looks terrible. He hardly resembles himself.

The stench is unbearable. Fried flesh. Ozone, electricity. Death and fear. The bodies blend into the background. Red on red, the purple mess of the collapsed coordinators, and Snoke—charred black and gold and red. Hux can’t bear to look at him, but he has to, because Kylo is sitting by the throne, on the ground. He’s toying with the hilt of his lightsaber, shirtless.

His chest is raw with wounds, some of his ribs appear to be broken, and his side has been speared through. Angry bruises surround the injuries. A deep-deep scar is bisecting his handsome face, and.

“I’ve been wondering where you’ve been.” Ren slowly meets his gaze.

Hux has to look away. He tries to say something, but nearly retches when he opens his mouth.

The room stinks of death and Ren’s eyes are yellow-red. Like a dreadful sunset. Sith-eyes; there’s a name for them, and Hux knows their significance—the sign of total submission to the Dark—but Ren is not—

“Come closer,” Ren says. A luring echo in a too-silent room.

Hux had wanted to look into his eyes one more time, wanted to see regret there, yes, but also how his gaze warmed over, that beautiful gold glow in the dark ember; a secret shine only Hux could ever see, a lover’s eyes softening.

“I need a moment,” Hux manages hoarsely. Keeps his gaze on Snoke’s corpse. It’s scorched. It looks like he’s been dead for over a hundred years. The burned flesh sticks to his broken bones. He’s been dismembered. Beheaded. Killed over and over again.

“Aren’t you glad?” Ren asks with a broken lilt, almost accusing. Hux’s stomach flips. He looks at him, and Ren takes it as an invitation to stand. Hux steps back.

“Glad?” he repeats.

“I fixed it,” Ren says. _Insists._

“You ruined it,” Hux snaps. There’s no force in it. He just sounds—tired, gutted.“The Supreme Leader is dead. We have no ruler.”

Ren frowns at him, looming, confused and clearly pissed.

“This is a gift.”

“I never fucking asked for it—”

“Let me heal your chest.”

“It’s healed.” Hux grabs at the tunic, pulls the V-neck lower. Ren will never understand the humiliation of having had to march through the bridge in civvies, because wearing his unironed uniform would’ve been even worse. He put on the greatcoat—it’s wool, it won’t crease—but it cannot make up for his lack of proper trousers, the gloves, the pomade. Neither of them look like they belong on a star destroyer. “I fixed myself,” he says. “And I stayed behind to fix your mess—I cannot fix this. I won’t. I can’t.”

“You wanted Snoke dead,” Ren growls. Takes another stomping step, grabs for Hux who jumps back and nearly slips on— _something_ —

“I wanted him dead in five to ten years,” Hux hisses, hands curled into fists. “I wanted him dead once the war was won and we had plenty of resources—so he would no longer be needed—we still _needed_ him—”

“We did _not_ need _—_ ”

“This is not how you murder somebody,” Hux goes on, manic, chest tight and his heart thumping. Ren sways in place, but stands his ground. He needs medical attention. Right now. Ren is heavily injured, has been—cursed, and he’s gone insane, he’s clearly lost his— “Have you thought about the consequences of your actions?”

Ren looks around. His face is blank, but there’s a glint in those yellow-red eyes, a sickening smugness Hux cannot stand. He should leave, march out and alert the medbay, and then—keep walking—

“I wanted Snoke dead because he hurt you,” Ren says. “I completed my mission.”

“I never would’ve assigned such a mission to you, you fool,” Hux snaps. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to do it alone—”

Ren staggers forward again, and Hux is backing away to the exit. It feels like it’s miles away; he needs to get out of here.

He needs to wake up. 

Better yet: look around once again. Attempt to comprehend what has happened. Denial is for cowards.

“What message does it send,” he says, “if you betray your Master in a brutal slaughter? What makes you think you’ll be safe as Supreme Leader when you just demonstrated how to get rid of one, and Skywalker—”

“Skywalker is no threat to us, my one. I will protect you—”

“I don’t need—”

“—always, always. I already did.”

“What makes you think—”

Ren gets down to a knee. Hux yanks his head away, turns his back, but it’s too late.

“Take your place on your throne,” Ren says.

It’s all he ever wanted. Maimed. Mocked. Twisted.

“Keep the throne,” Hux addresses the wall. Something is dripping down on it. “I won’t inherit _this_. I will never forgive—”

“Hux—”

“—what you did to the Order today, to me, the chaos you unleashed, what you put me through just so you can—”

“I never—”

“—steal my destiny and give it back as if it was a _gift_. I don’t want your charity, I don’t want—you.”

“Armitage.”

It sounds as if Ren was standing close. Hux turns to find him standing within arm’s reach—so he can teleport now, and who knows what else—he looks at Hux the way he wanted him to, in the way that says _I’m sorry_ and _let me make it better_ , but it’s way too fucking late. He dips in for a kiss and Hux turns away, but grabs his arms. Holds onto him as he steps back, putting some distance between them.

“Go to the medbay, for fuck’s sake,” he whispers. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not, and you won’t be for a long time. And it’s not my—kriffing job—to fix it.”

Ren tries for a kiss again, and Hux can’t fault him. He tips his head so Ren’s lips press to his face, warm and soft. If he keeps his eyes closed, if he keeps still and doesn’t breathe, he could pretend they’re back on Dorsoduro. That there are opportunities available, and more than one thing left to say.

“My rage has gave me powers you cannot fathom,” Ren whispers into his neck, nuzzles his jaw. “Our love has a devastating force. Ask for everything and I will give it to you. Tell me everything you want me to do. I will listen, this time. I’m sorry. I’m yours entirely, it’s all yours, Armitage.”

Hux fists Ren’s hair but doesn’t have it in him to make him pull away. He lets Ren bury his face into his shoulder, press a kiss there; feels his eyes well up as he’s breathing in Ren’s scent. He missed him; missed him so much it made him sick. Still: standing in this almost-embrace, he can see Snoke’s corpse on the throne, and all the bodies around, and he’s holding their murderer, a traitor, an usurper.

The one who let him rot alone.

The heir of Lord Vader with eyes like his grandfather’s, destined for—something grand and _stupid_ —

“You have no idea how you humiliated me,” Hux says softly. “That makes it worse, you know. That you don’t even know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I told you I won’t ever forgive you.” He pulls at his hair, gently. Makes him look at him, and makes himself look back. Ren, wrecked and blessed, wounded and hallowed, is still beautiful; and is still—and forever—way out of Hux’s league. They were never meant to be equals. Ren is the Supreme Leader now, the one the Force chose; and Hux—a mere mortal—will continue what he can do, and soldier on.

Protect the Order from another disaster.

“Do you hear me?” Hux says when Ren says nothing, just looks at him, frightened and disbelieving. “I’m no longer Armitage. I’m General Hux, appointed by Admiral Sloane, and I won’t let anyone, much less someone I love, treat me like you did. This is goodbye, but I won’t be gone. You will see me every cycle, but never in private moments. I take back what has been given. My heart—”

_breaks_

“—is not yours to—”

“Shut up,” Ren says.

Hux takes a ragged breath. He has approximately twenty seconds before his resolve breaks and he starts to wail, embrace Ren and—

So he lets Ren’s hair slip from his fist, strand by strand. Turns away with grace.

“Please do go to the medbay,” he says, voice even. “You’re sick.”

He marches to the door, and expects Ren to—follow, scream; do something. Work his magic. There’s no power in the universe that would make Hux change his mind; but Ren has powers he—really fucking hates and cannot understand and—he could do something to get him back.

He could do more than watch.

He could do more than _give up_.

There’s a tug on his sleeve, careful, tentative, a wordless plea; it’s not enough to hold him back.

He hears a heavy thud, which tells him that Ren has fallen to his knees again, but he won’t look back.

He won’t ever look back.

The marred door slides open, and Hux hesitates for a moment. All he hears are pathetic little sobs, and when he realises it’s him crying, not Ren, he takes the final step and the door closes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warnings:** minor self-harm (aggressive rubs, angry masturbation) / fleeting fantasy about spanking, prostate milking and fingering used for (consensual) punishment / naturalistic descriptions of murder / Ren appears to be a bit threatening; be assured he won’t physically harm Hux in this fic 
> 
> The **Kylo POV scenes** in the chapter were written by ktula; she also continues to be an awesome beta, alongside Deadsy.
> 
> The chapter title is from the Nine Inch Nails/Johnny Cash song _Hurt_. Want more pain? There's a RO&TF playlist on [YouTube!](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLah7OtfgZdrM4RthPwMXnzQhiWUUb-sIC)
> 
> You can find a moodboard on [twitter](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1083725528916520961), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/422822) and [tumblr](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/181923783351/reach-out-and-touch-faith-chapter-6-ren-will-be). There's an interview on [dreamwidth](https://forautumn.dreamwidth.org/1436.html) about developing the chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> _Reach Out and Touch Faith is going on a hiatus as we wrap up the second half of the story -- we'll be back soon!_


	7. Standing on Ceremony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a year.
> 
> Kylo has let it go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand, we're back! Chapter warnings are at the end, as always. Since we're coming back after a hiatus, here's what's happened so far....
> 
> ***
> 
> A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...
> 
> Kylo Ren, direct from massacring the occupants of Skywalker's jedi school, has joined the First Order under Supreme Leader Snoke. Cloaked with a mask made by his long-banished Knights, Kylo begins to integrate into the Order, and learns to work with one General Hux...
> 
> Hux, who is behind on his plan to have divested himself of his virginity by now. He's nearly thirty, with no prospects at all, and no time for anything but his work, and a crate full of custom-engineered sex toys, which do not do anything to prevent his fantasies about the Master of the Knights of Ren.
> 
> And then, there is Jakku, and a fruitless mission, with no trace of what Snoke sent them to find. Come nightfall, there is only one command tent, and only one sleeping bag, and they're close, so close underneath Kylo's cloak, and their hands are on each other.
> 
> After, they make plans to meet again. A secret rendevouz on Dorsoduro, a date, a divestment of virginities. They strip down, and Hux removes his shirt, and there are lightning marks across his pale skin, remnants of Snoke's abuse from earlier in the day.
> 
> Kylo's mind goes red, and then white. He abandons Hux in the hotel, flies back to the Supremacy, murders Snoke and everyone in the vicinity. And then he summons his boyfriend, left alone in a hotel on Dorsoduro, back to offer him the position of Supreme Leader.
> 
> Hux, hurt beyond all measure, turns him down.
> 
> It's over.
> 
> They were never meant to be equals.

Kylo tips his head back to the ceiling, exhales a perfect plume of smoke up toward the vents. There’s music playing softly in the background—a selection of Bith operatic arias—and the lights are dimmed. His silk robe is draped over his body, and the chaise longue is soft underneath him. Just this morning, he watched all the videos from start to finish, and he did not react at all. It is a Sign. His datapad hovers above him, and he idly uses the Force to page through the security cameras on the Supremacy. Here, the throne room—empty. Here, the hallway outside his own rooms—empty. Here, the docking bay—and the shadow of the Finalizer, parked and enclosed entirely within the Supremacy, guarded by a squadron of his best troopers.

He takes another drag from his black cigarette, exhales and uses the Force to eddie the smoke into whorls and dots, holds the entire thing into an elaborate abstract design before letting it go, the smoke dissolving into nothing but a slightly scented haze that the air purifiers will clear out. He floats the datapad over to one of his side tables, and then turns his hands, carefully closes his fingers over his palms and inspects his nail polish. It’s dry, now.

“What do you think, my little darling?” he asks softly, turning his attention to the pale hairless dog lying beside him. “Shall I go get dressed?”

The Corellian hound hulking beside his chaise growls, rubs her ridged head against the palm of Kylo’s hand.

“Stay,” Kylo says, soothing her with the Force. “I’ll be back shortly.” He bends down, kisses the air just above her head. “Beautiful thing.”

*

He sticks his brows down, covers them with concealer, the same as he covers the swelling under his eyes caused by lack of sleep. Piles his hair up on top of his head, using the Force to hold it exactly where he wants it while the hairspray sets, an elaborate style that curls dramatically out around his face like a halo. Applies his foundation carefully, full coverage blotting out his brows and continuing down onto his neck. Outlines his eyes in black, re-draws his eyebrows where he wants them, artistically curled and dotted. Slightly higher on his face than usual, but just as thick as they normally are. His top lip is painted in black, a black line extending from his cupid’s bow down his lower lip to his chin.

This isn’t the type of thing he should be doing alone. He had _never_ intended to do this alone.

He glances over at the desk situated in the corner—elegant, beautiful, and pristine, an exact replica of the one that Hux has in his office on the Finalizer, but better. Nicer. Made with more expensive materials.

It doesn’t matter. It’s never been used. It’s been here since he moved into these rooms, and the last person who touched the desk is the technician that hooked up the holo equipment.

Kylo sighs, turns his head to hover another cigarette into his mouth. Lights it with a spark of red from the tip of his index finger, white-hot heat that instantly lights the cigarette, but which he doesn’t feel. (The tips of his fingers are all completely numb, and have been since he slaughtered Snoke.) He inhales, with the cigarette still hovering a quarter inch from his lips so that it doesn’t fuck up his lipstick.

His eyes are still reddened from earlier. From thinking about things too much, not getting enough sleep. He uses the Force to contract the blood vessels, diminish the redness. He clears his throat, loosens the sash on his silk robe and lets it fall open, shifts as the weight of his jewelry tugs down on him. Deliberately loads up a brush, and then hovers a ball of white light over his palm while he carefully applies gold flake into the scar that runs down the right side of his face and down his neck, matching his scar to his bright yellow eyes.

He’s touching up his lip line when he hears something behind him. A moment later, his hound is snuffling at his palm.

“Shh, shh,” Kylo says, weighting his words with the Force. “Lie down, girl.” He taps his brush against his fingernail, whirls the loose gold flakes away into the air with a whirl of the Force, and sets the brush on his vanity before turning, slowly, in his chair, and making deliberate eye contact. “You’re early.”

General Hux’s face is flat, his lips drawn into a tight line, command cap perfectly centered on his head. “I’m exactly on time.” Pause. “Supreme Leader.”

“You shouldn’t have let her in here,” Kylo says, turning back to his mirror and watching Hux’s reflection. “She’ll destroy my things.”

Hux says nothing, and his face doesn’t change.

It’s been a year. The least Hux owes to Kylo is a response. A _reaction_. Something more than a flat refusal of every single gift that Kylo has offered since—since the throne room, when neither of them were at their best, and at least Kylo can be honest about that, even if Hux isn’t ready to admit it. Kylo just wants something that will validate the efforts he’s been making, but he’s gotten nothing from Hux since the curt insinuation that Kylo needed the med bay.

Kylo has let it go. Hux needs to do the same.

(He did not need the medbay. He was fine. Is fine. More powerful than ever, now that Snoke is gone.)

Kylo loads up his brush again and resumes pressing more gold flakes into his scar. It always takes at least two applications to ensure that it’ll last the entire day. He watches Hux through the mirror—and Hux deliberately stares off to the side, his gaze absolutely unmoving.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I called you here,” Kylo says, finally. He taps the brush off again, swirls the loose gold flakes away into an eddie that whirls back toward Hux, and then dissolves in front of him, dropping loose bits of gold over his tunic.

Hux’s nostrils flare.

“I can make you respond, you know.”

Hux swallows, and then recites the question, voice flat. “Why did you summon me here, Supreme Leader.”

“I would have put inflection in it, if I’d done it,” Kylo says.

“You didn’t,” Hux says.

“There’s a ceremony at the end of the week.”

“I am aware.”

“You are mandated to attend.”

“I had assumed as much when the Finalizer was summoned.” Hux closes his mouth, and then opens it again. “Shall I send in the next general on my way out, then?”

“I didn’t summon the others here,” Kylo says.

“There was no need to summon me here either,” Hux points out, finally rising to the bait. “We have a regularly scheduled meeting at eleven hundred—”

“—which you have been skipping, more often than not.”

“I have sent a designate each time,” Hux says tightly. “It is perfectly within the confines of my rank to send a designate—”

“—so it was necessary to summon you—”

“—to meetings which hold no personal benefit to me.”

“Stop,” Kylo snaps. “I will not tolerate blatant disrespect directly to my face. I am your Supreme Leader.”

Hux exhales through his nose, his lips gone bloodless. “You are.”

“Do not forget that I hold this position because you gave it up,” Kylo adds.

Hux flinches.

Kylo sighs, stands up to smooth it over—and Hux’s breath catches, his face going pale, and his mouth open in shock.

Kylo reaches for his mind out of instinct, and rather than a visualized wall of durasteel, gets a cold wave of shock, followed by—

Hux turns, sharply, and leaves Kylo’s room without so much as a salute.

Kylo stands, blinking, watching as Hux disappears through Kylo’s chambers and then out the door, greatcoat flaring out behind him as he stalks off.

After a moment, Kylo summons another cigarette, and turns to approach his vanity again, catching a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror.

 _Ah_ , he thinks. _That._

It’s been easier, since the breakup. Not the immediate aftermath, obviously—Kylo doesn’t like to think about that part. Unlike the massacre in the throne room, the details of which have been lost to afterimages of Force lightning, the numbness in his fingertips, and the stench of Snoke’s corpse, everything that followed afterwards is crystal clear in Kylo’s mind. Hux’s abandoning him when he needed it the most. Hux rejecting Kylo at the height of his power.

It doesn’t matter now. Kylo has it under control.

With his robe open like this, the metal cage that encircles and restricts his cock is fully on display. The cage is tight, a series of durasteel loops that start back behind his balls and continue down the shaft of his cock, restricting the entire thing, keeping him from getting hard. He can wear whatever he wants, now, without any obscene reactions. He doesn’t need to worry about Hux’s proximity, or lack thereof. He will not react to it.

Kylo shrugs his robe to the floor, and summons the rest of his wardrobe with a gesture. Flowing black pants with slits from his ankles to his hips, and a black leather belt encrusted with gems riding low on his hips. A matching black leather harness, the back of it patterned like a spiderweb, fastens over his shoulders, covering the top third of his chest and going over his shoulders onto his back. Black teardrop earrings, bracelets, and a series of tasteful rings complete the look.

On his way out of his chambers, Kylo gestures in the direction of his bed, ducks his head slightly.

The silver chain normally left in a dish on the nightstand flies across the room and drapes over his head, letting the keys to his cock cage settle, comfortably, onto the middle of his chest.

Kylo gestures for a sheer robe, pulls it on over the entire ensemble, and leaves it open at the chest so that the keys will be clearly visible.

“FN-2187,” he says to the trooper standing right outside his door. “With me.”

“Sir,” the trooper replies, falling into step immediately behind him.

Kylo takes one look down the hall in the direction Hux had gone—and then thinks nothing of it, and continues in the other direction to the throne room.

*

“—sincere apologies that I am unable to attend,” General Ardmore Wu says, his hologram image flickering slightly.

“You’re needed in the Outer Reaches,” Kylo responds. “Your service to the Order is greatly appreciated.”

The General nods, sharply. “It’s been a long while since the First Order has held a ceremony this grand.”

“Yes,” Kylo says. The comment is obvious, and Wu’s attempt to be ingratiating is not helpful, nor will it get him summoned back from the Outer Reaches. As far as Kylo can tell, the First Order has never held anything as ceremonial as what Kylo is planning.

“It is—”

“I will not,” Kylo says casually, “tell you to stick to your post again. You’ll either be there, in the Outer Reaches, or you will no longer be with the Order.” He lifts his hand, twitches his fingers slightly. The burned-smooth pads of his fingertips won’t be visible over the holocall, but it doesn’t matter. It’s the principle of the thing. The reminder.

The insinuation that he could take Wu out at any time, and still might.

Wu swallows. “Yes, Supreme Leader. All hail.”

“All hail,” Kylo repeats flatly, and then he closes the connection.

*

Most of his generals are here in person, Hux included, but this particular conference room is massive, and holds them all easily. Kylo sits on the throne installed on the dias, slightly raised up from everything else, and watches, bored, as the generals talk about things that don’t matter.

He raises his thumb to his mouth, chews at the pad of it. He’ll raise Hux up above all of them, put Hux in his rightful place even though he is ungrateful, even though he sits there with his face stone-still and his stylus unmoving between his fingers.

Kylo deserves better than this. He deserves so much better than this.

The meeting falls silent. Kylo looks at his generals.

They’re staring at the empty space where General Malakhov usually sits. The chair is empty, for obvious reasons.

(The touch of Malakhov’s fingertips on Kylo’s elbow had been most unwelcome. Kylo had removed his arm first, and then thought better of it and removed his head as well. It should have gone without saying that no matter how exposed the Supreme Leader was, his body was not the property of the Order, and, thus, was not to be touched.)

Before Kylo can tell them to get on with it, Hux speaks. His voice is flat.

“Had Malakhov left his notes with anyone?”

Murmurs around the table quickly devolve into silence.

“Supreme Leader,” Hux says, looking at his datapad. “As Malakhov is no longer with us, it is suggested that we table the discussion on subsistence until his adjutant has retrieved his portfolio materials.”

Kylo nods, and the meeting continues. He watches Hux the entire time, watches the tight set of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders, the way that he engages very little with the other generals.

At the end of the meeting, they all stand, and look to Kylo for dismissal. Kylo waits, lets them sweat it out, and then flicks his fingers to dismiss them.

“General Hux,” he calls, voice low.

Hux stops walking immediately, but does not turn.

“A word.”

Hux approaches the dais, stops. Assumes parade, eyes very carefully not looking at Kylo’s person. He looks vulnerable like this. Small.

There’s no need. Kylo won’t hurt him.

“What happened to General Malakhov was a tragedy,” Kylo says, after he decides that Hux has suffered enough.

“Certainly,” Hux says flatly.

“I wanted you to know,” Kylo says, “that the same fate would not befall you.”

“That’s entirely unnecessary,” Hux says. He lifts his chin, makes eye contact with Kylo, and does not bother to hide the curl of his lip when he does so. “I will not be touching you.”

Before, Kylo would have felt anger and rage, a rush of sentiment and emotion and things that he could not neither name nor control. Now, he feels only cold metal between his legs, cold ice around his heart, and the slow burn of fanaticism and devotion to a cause that Hux could not ever hope to understand. “Do as you like,” Kylo says. He waves his hand in dismissal, lets Hux get all the way to the door before calling after him.

Hux stills, again. “Yes?”

“Familiarize yourself with General Malakhov’s portfolio,” Kylo says. “As well as the other portfolios we discussed today. You need to be familiar with everything going on in the First Order.”

Silence for a moment—and then a slight rise of Hux’s eyebrow.

“It hasn’t been a year yet, and you already tire of these meetings,” Hux says.

“Ah,” Kylo replies, and he lets his painted lips curve up into a cold smile. “You remembered.”

Hux’s mouth twists, and he turns sharply on his heel, and marches out of the room.

*

Kylo whirls, spins, smashes the next droid into oblivion. He’s breathing hard, now. He thrusts his hand out, tosses another droid into the wall.

A year. Nearly an entire karking year, and Hux has not—

Kylo flexes numb fingers, sending red lightning arcing off the floor to disable the remaining four droids and stands, panting, in the middle of a destroyed training room.

It will be a year at the end of the week. A year since Jakku. Two years since Kylo’s immersion into the First Order.

He loosens the blindfold around his eyes with the Force, lets it fall to the ground. The walls are scorched, the floor partially melted. The droids disassembled into pieces now, the pieces shoved against the walls of the room.

He had debated waiting, delaying the ceremony until the year anniversary of Snoke’s death—but that is the year anniversary of Hux’s biggest mistake too, and it would be petty to forever link the two dates in Hux’s mind.

Hux’s greatest mistake and the subsequent glory that Kylo will offer him should not be linked.

Better, of course, to link Hux’s greatest success with Kylo’s own—that is, Kylo’s decision to join the Order, and a year later, what had happened on Jakku, which was exactly as the Force willed it. And now, another year later—this.

Snoke’s death was a setback.

They are moving past it, even if Kylo has to do all the work himself.

With another gesture, Kylo crumples all the metal in the vicinity into a ball, flings it across the room and embeds it into the wall.

Breathing heavily, he leaves the training facility.

*

Kylo bathes afterwards, holds his breath and sinks to the bottom of the black tub until he feels purified. When he comes out of the tub, he is completely naked, hair hanging to his shoulders and dripping down his back, cock flaccid between his legs. He is Kylo, here—not Kylo Ren, not the Supreme Leader, just Kylo. He’s the only one who sees himself like this, now that—

The cage goes on first. The silver one, this time. He feeds his shaft through the hole in the center, between the rings. Latches the rest of the cage back behind his balls. The keys are in a small dish beside the bath. He lifts them out with the Force, locks the cage shut without touching it. He can feel his cock swelling within, but there’s no risk to it. Nothing can happen. He’s perfectly contained this way.

Thus armored, he summons a towel and dries his hair, skims the water off his body with the Force. Moves from his refresher into his bedroom, his caged cock hanging heavy between his legs. He summons a silk robe, shrugs it on, and then sits down on his chaise.

He views them in reverse chronological order. All the messages, starting from _could you explain it to me_ all the way back to _are you quite all right?_ Then the pictures, most of which show Hux’s face, and some of which show his cock—hard and flushed and gripped in Hux’s fist, framed by the soft points of his hips and the small curve of his belly. And the videos—every single video that Hux had ever sent him, Hux’s pert little ass and the glimmer of the red kyber plug between his cheeks, Hux’s hand working on his cock, Hux’s fingers working between his legs—or the best videos, the ones where he’s doing both at once, gasping and panting and calling Kylo’s name, the kyber plug abandoned beside him, glossy and slick on the ice-blue couch.

Kylo’s breathing is even. His heart-rate is steady. His cock is pressed up against the cage, but it isn’t hard. It can’t be hard. He is in control now.

He watches the first video last. The one that Hux had sent him after Jakku. Hux’s chest is flushed, and the colour in his cheeks is high, and his face is so _open_ that it makes him look a completely different person from the iciness that Kylo had been the recipient of earlier in the day.

“This is a reward,” Hux breathes, staring directly at Kylo through space and time. “For your willingness to listen. For your willingness to learn. You deserve this, Kylo.”

“I do,” Kylo says, and his voice echoes in the emptiness of his chambers.

He watches the video until Hux’s completion—and then he shuts off the datapad, secures it, and slides it under his pillow.

He summons his other datapad, and begins reviewing the plan for the ceremony later in the week.

*

White facepaint. Deep blue lipstick, and matching nails. Thick black eyebrows, moved high enough up his face that there is room for blue and purple eyeshadow, a cold night sky across the landscape of his eyelids. A long black gown, today, embroidered in silver, a deep v-cut that falls sharply from his shoulders down past his navel, and a long train that swoops out behind him. The keys to his cage sit prominently in the middle of his chest. They are there for the taking, but Hux is the only one who will be allowed to get close enough to touch them.

It’s oh eight hundred hours, and their regular meeting isn’t scheduled until eleven am. Kylo is going to invite Hux to breakfast, wow him with the class and luxury available on the Supremacy that was never made accessible to Hux on the Finalizer. (It was never made available to Kylo on the Supremacy either—but the Supremacy is nothing if not a floating city. The greenhouses are here, and so Kylo is going to benefit from them now that this all belongs to him. After all, he pays for them, and there should be some benefit for staff to be stationed here. Hux’s refusal of improved rations for the Finalizer is posturing, nothing more, and Kylo will make him see the error of his ways right here—)

“He’s not answering,” FN-2187 says.

Kylo levels the full force of his eyes on the trooper, and the trooper doesn’t even flinch.

“I’ve hailed him twice, Sir,” he says. “He is not answering the comm in the guest quarters.”

“Then we’ll go there,” Kylo says, and to the trooper’s credit, he just falls into step beside Kylo, and keeps walking.

It was an adjustment for everyone on-ship, to have a Supreme Leader who was physically present. From what Kylo has been able to piece together, Snoke was never seen anywhere outside of his throne room. It was one of many mistakes that Kylo is correcting.

The Supreme Leader should be seen.

He wonders if there’s a chance that Hux will be in his pajamas when Kylo shows up. If Hux still leaves the top button undone, if the bottom button still comes undone in his sleep. If Hux would curl up against Kylo’s body again, press up against Kylo’s cock cage. If it would bother Hux that Kylo is unresponsive now, if it would bother Hux that Kylo is—

“We’re here, Sir,” FN-2187 says. He stands aside.

Kylo wants to use the Force to open the door, hoping to catch Hux off-guard, to get that hint of vulnerability in his eyes—but he knows that it would be unforgivable if he did it, and so instead, he just presses his palm to the access panel outside Hux’s door, and he waits.

The panel flashes green, which is odd, because Kylo specifically did not request an override for this room, and so he steps inside—and the rooms are empty.

He doesn’t need to look through them.

Hux has never been here.

*

Kylo descends upon the Finalizer, his gown flowing out behind him, and his eyes narrowed.

“Where is General Hux,” he snaps as he enters the ship.

“He’s on the bridge,” the woman says sharply, saluting. “I’ll escort you there, Supreme Leader.”

He acquiesces to it even though he knows the way. It’s exactly as Kylo remembers it, except it’s quieter now, because he has control, because he can shut everything out. He can shut it all out, and focus exactly on what he needs to focus on—which is Hux, in his uniform, hair waxed flat to his skull under his command cap, facing away from him and staring out the viewport.

“General Hux,” Kylo intones, and he is rewarded with a visible tightening of Hux’s shoulders, a brief hesitation before Hux turns around.

Hux is perfectly put together, just as he always is. His uniform is immaculate, his hair is perfect, his eyes sharp. The shadows underneath them are more prominent now than they were. He must not be sleeping either.

Kylo rakes his gaze across Hux, top to bottom, and then back up to his face again.

Hux just stares at him.

“You weren’t in the guest rooms,” Kylo says.

“...I had no need of them,” Hux says. “The Finalizer is my home. I am here.”

Kylo looks at Hux, and then looks out across the observation deck. The only thing visible outside of the transparisteel is the docking bay of the Supremacy.

“Really,” he says.

“Was there somewhere else I should be?” Hux asks.

 _In my bed_ , Kylo thinks. _On my chest. Let me put my hands on you._ “Breakfast,” he says. “I wanted to—”

“I ate,” Hux says.

“Tomorrow, then,” Kylo says.

Hux’s mouth flattens even more, his plush lips compressing. “Send me a meeting req—”

“It’s not a request,” Kylo says flatly. “You will be there. My quarters. Oh seven hundred hours. We will discuss the upcoming ceremony, and your participation therein. Your input is required on a number of items, most of which are confidential and cannot be discussed in front of your crew.” He can feel his heart rate increasing, because Hux’s face is frustratingly blank, and Kylo is upset that after everything they have been through, it does not matter, and Hux is unaffected, and all Kylo wants is to show him how much he cares, and Hux does not even give one single—

“If that will be all, Supreme Leader,” Hux says, “I’ll take my leave.”

“You’re standing on your own bridge,” Kylo says. “Where will you go?”

Hux glares at him, and then has the audacity to shoulder him aside, storm off the bridge.

The physical contact is sharp and hard, Hux’s uniformed shoulder colliding with Kylo’s bare one—and, oh, there it is, and it’s better than Kylo expected.

Hux is on fire with it. He is completely consumed with thoughts of Ren, with the scar, the yellow of Ren’s eyes, the sheerness of Ren’s gown—and, above all, Hux is thinking about the keys on Kylo’s chest, and about things that he wants and will not let himself have.

Kylo smiles to himself, and watches Hux leave.

*

“You know I’ll promote you,” Kylo says, and Hux nearly chokes on his tea. His face goes red and then purple, one gloved hand covering his mouth while he lets go of his mug entirely.

Kylo lowers Hux’s mug back to the table with the Force, waits for Hux to regain control of himself.

“It’s what you deserve,” Kylo adds. He picks up a piece of jogan fruit, eats it carefully while he watches Hux recover himself.

“That’s why you summoned me,” Hux says, finally. His face is still flushed, and he’s scrubbed the spit-damp on his glove off on his pants under the table, like Kylo won’t notice.

“I summoned you because I wanted to see you,” Kylo says. “You ignore my holocalls.”

“It’s been—”

“—nearly a year,” Kylo says. “That makes it…”

Hux doesn’t complete the sentence.

“Significant,” Kylo says. “It makes it—”

“Don’t.”

“I don’t want you to think that I’m not paying attention,” Kylo says.

Hux inhales through his nose, exhales. Carefully puts the his gloved palms on the edge of the table, and leans forward.

“Why are you doing this to me,” he hisses. “You were leaving me alone. You had left me alone—”

Kylo bites back an impulse to slam the flat of his palm on the table, leans forward and squeezes his own knee tighty under the table where Hux can’t see it. “Like how you left me in _bacta_?”

“ _That was last year_ —”

“And I am _over_ it,” Kylo snaps.

“Then let me move forward,” Hux says. “Stop making me look at—” His mouth snaps shut.

Kylo leans back in his chair, grinning. Brings one bare hand, nails immaculately manicured, up to his chest, and plays with the keys. He’s wearing a long velvet robe today, open at the chest, with belled sleeves and intricate embroidery. “You don’t have to look,” he says, voice pitched low. “Not if you don’t _want_ to.”

Hux picks up his mug, takes a sip of tea. Sets the mug back down. “If you want to discuss the ceremony,” he says tightly, “we should discuss the ceremony.”

“Of course,” Kylo says, but he doesn’t bother sitting up—in fact, he stretches his legs out further, balances his thumb on his chest and lets the key dangle from his extended pinky. “The ceremony will take place on Primeday, though I would be open to start the celebration on Ben—”

“Primeday is acceptable,” Hux says. He’s produced a datapad somewhere, pushed his untouched plate aside to make room for it on the breakfast table.

Kylo floats a piece of jogan fruit into his mouth, chews and swallows. Lights a cigarette, and floats that into his mouth as well. Takes a deep inhale, and then blows the smoke out in rings.

(The piece of nicotine gum that Hux palms into his mouth immediately does not go unnoticed.)

“Our guests will start arriving as early as tomorrow,” Kylo says. “I’ll require you to be with me to greet them as they arrive.”

“I’ll expect to be sent the guest list,” Hux says.

“Done,” Kylo responds. “I’ll refer to you, of course, as my Grand Marshal-elect.”

Hux blinks at him.

“It should have been done years ago,” Kylo says. “And I’m fixing it now. Do you have a white dress uniform?”

“Do I have…”

“Send your measurements to me.”

“They’re on file with—”

“I’ll have them ordered from there, then.”

“Fine.”

“The first half of the ceremony is focused on the power and the might of the First Order,” Kylo continues.

Hux isn’t paying attention. He’s watching the light glint off the key as Kylo shifts it around.

Let him watch.

He can have the key whenever he wants.

*

“It took you twenty minutes to answer,” Kylo says languidly. He’s stretched out on the chaise, wearing a black silk robe, and smoking.

“Yes,” Hux says.

It’s three am, and Hux is in full uniform. The hologram is in full colour, because Kylo has upgraded all their tech—but it’s not high enough resolution for Kylo to get the details that he wants, like whether or not there’s sleep crusted at the corner of Hux’s eyes.

“I wanted to discuss section four of the program.”

Hux sighs. “The anthem is set. There’s nothing to discuss about the anthem unless you’ve—” He stops talking abruptly, stares down at the screen of his datapad.

“I bumped the anthem to section five. The projection of Starkiller will still be displaying when the anthem plays.”

Hux swallows, and doesn’t speak.

“The Starkiller Project is going to be the greatest achievement of the First Order,” Kylo says gently. “It’s only right that we profile it at your promotion ceremony.”

Hux’s face is the softest that Kylo has seen it in an entire year. “It’s just...there are eighteen other...”

Kylo exhales a cloud of smoke, leans in closer to the screen. “ _Your_ promotion ceremony,” he says. “Do you want me to cancel the other promotions? Because I’ll cancel the other promotions.”

Hux sighs, his voice catching at the end. “That would be inappropriate and disrespectful,” he says, finally. His face has gone cold again. “The promotions will go forward as planned. It is not necessary to profile the Starkiller Project at this time, and the anthem does not need to be bumped. Was there anything else, Supreme Leader?”

“Tomorrow morning—”

“You’ll find that my calendar is full,” Hux says blandly. “Perhaps another time.” He glances down at his datapad. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll take my leave.”

After the call has been closed—after Kylo has smoked the remainder of his cigarette, and two more besides—Kylo pulls up Hux’s calendar.

Tomorrow morning is blocked off by a private meeting, created thirteen minutes ago.

Kylo rubs at his sternum, clears his throat.

Lights a fourth cigarette.

*

When Kylo enters medical, neither of them look up. He waits in the doorway. There is nothing but silence—silence, and the steady beep of the life-support machine.

(Elen is out of bacta now, but still hasn’t woken up. When they try to bring her out of her coma, she thrashes and screams and they have to sedate her again.)

Kylo reaches out, tentatively, with the Force—and Anat, sitting on the edge of the bed, snarls under her breath, throws up her hand and a Force shield with it, her other hand splayed protectively over Elen’s comatose body.

Kylo pulls back completely, waits.

“You should have left us,” Anat says, finally, her voice gravelly and low. “You had no business bringing us back after you left us to die.”

“The former—”

“No,” she snarls, standing up and rolling her shoulders forward. She’s shorter than he is, but just as wide, even without her shoulderpads. “We did what we could. We did our best. But he cut us off from you, and he cut us off from each other, and we are the only two Knights remaining, and there is _nothing_ that you can do to fix that.”

Kylo takes a deep breath. He shouldn’t have painted his face before coming here. He knows better than to paint his face before coming here, because he knows that things should have been different. Things were supposed to have been different, but Kylo swallowed the lies that Snoke fed him, and his Knights suffered for it, and—

He looks down at the piece of flimsy in his hand. It’s a formal request to have her appear at the ceremony, wearing her formal robes, and standing by his side. She’s his only remaining conscious Knight of Ren, and it’s important for her to be here.

He watches her adjust the blanket covering her comrade.

Then, without saying anything, he ducks his head and leaves medical.

His eyes are stinging, his vision blurring, and even then, the moment that he leaves, he instantly recognizes the blur of orange at the end of the hall, the set of Hux’s shoulders.

Kylo turns around and immediately starts walking the other direction.

*

He doesn’t have a chance to go to the gym until three in the morning, and by that time, he’s vibrating with it, his hands shaking, his entire body wired and keyed up. He activates the door, steps inside, and realizes that it’s still under construction from the last time that he destroyed it.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and three maintenance droids swivel their optical sensors over in his direction.

“Supreme Leader,” one of them chirps. “All hail the Supreme Leader.”

“As you were,” Kylo grits out, and he turns on his heel and starts walking.

*

There are other gyms. There are lots of other gyms even just on the Supremacy.

But Kylo finds himself on the Finalizer anyways, stalking wraithlike and silent through dead corridors. There’s a gym on the command deck, and it’s here that Kylo goes, overriding the access panel with the Force, and stepping into an entirely empty gym.

He goes through his workout methodically. Cardio, weights, cardio again. Works out until every muscle in his body is screaming, until he’s panting hard. He has to step off the treadmill at the end, cough until he can feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

He can taste stale smoke in his mouth, and his cage is dead weight between his legs.

He summons a cleaning droid on his way out of the gym, instructs it to wipe everything down, clean everything up so it’s like he wasn’t here. He takes one of the gym towels with him, because the laundry on the Finalizer is subtly different than that on the Supremacy, and the towel smells the way he remembers Hux’s clothes smelling.

From the gym, it’s a right turn to get to the turbolifts that take him down, so that he can disembark from the ship and head back to his own rooms on the Supremacy. Kylo turns left instead, walks down the hall and presses his hand against one of the doors—and then leans forward, presses his sweaty forehead against the door itself and just breathes, trying to catch his breath.

He can’t bear to put his hand on the access panel, doesn’t want to know who Hux has put into these rooms that used to be Kylo’s. Doesn’t want to know if the rooms are still furnished or just empty. Would rather just leave it as a mystery, because the truth of it will probably break him.

He passes by Hux’s room on his way out of the Finalizer. He doesn’t need to put his hand on Hux’s door—he can feel Hux’s presence there through the Force, can hear the irregular catch of Hux’s breath, the high-pitched whine that keeps escaping from his lungs, even though he’s got—something, it’s his hand, he’s got his hand pressed up against his mouth, and he’s thinking of—

Kylo puts his back against Hux’s door instead of his hand, tips his head back and just breathes, listening. After a few minutes, he swipes at his eyes. There’s black eyeliner smudged on the back of his hand.

Then he straightens, and keeps walking.

*

“Hold still, beautiful,” Kylo murmurs.

His hound shudders, bares its fangs, and stays completely stationary while Kylo drapes a gold chain around its neck, runs his bare hand over its dermal ridge.

“There you are,” he breathes. “Come on, it’s almost time to go.”

He stands, summons his datapad, and looks at his messages.

 **Grand Marshal-elect Hux:** Explain.

The message is dated two hours ago. Kylo wonders whether Hux has been stressing about it since—or whether he sent the message, and then moved on with his preparations. He knows Hux has probably moved on with this just like he’s moved on with everything else, and he would ache for it if he had anything left to ache with—but he doesn’t, because he’s locked everything up tight, and there’s nothing to react with.

(Kylo wonders if Hux likes the outfit that was sent to him. It will look gorgeous on him, as long as he’ll wear it.)

 **Supreme Leader Ren:** Changes to the proceedings were sent to your datapad. There is no explanation necessary, you will stand next to me throughout the ceremony.

The response is immediate.

 **Grand Marshal-elect Hux:** Who am I replacing?

 **Grand Marshal-elect Hux:** Has someone else been dismembered? I should have already been informed if that was the case.

(Kylo thinks of his Knights, then, and the glory that should have come from having the six of them flanking him, demonstrating the power and strength of the Force for everyone, showing just how much the First Order can achieve with the backing of the Knights of Ren—but then he thinks of the look in Anat’s eyes when he went down to the med wing, and he thinks of the length and breadth of Snoke’s betrayal. Hux would never betray him. Hux is who he needs by his side. The Force has been quite clear on this matter.)

 **Supreme Leader Ren:** No dismemberments. Just a change in plans.

 **Grand Marshal-elect Hux:** Of course.

Kylo turns his datapad off, moves it elsewhere. Looks at himself in the mirror for a moment, at his yellow eyes and his pale face, at the irritating way that his ears still stick out when his hair is pulled back like this. Then he loosens the tie holding his hair, lets it fall in waves around his face.

Picks up his kabuki brush, and starts powdering his face white.

Much better.

*

Kylo had ordered the Supremacy to be retrofit to include a ballroom, had wiped out an entire floor of training rooms in order to ensure that the ballroom was located next to the gardens. Everything is the exact style that he and Hux prefer—sparse and elegant, mirror finishes, the power of the First Order visible everywhere without being gaudy. There is a hum of excitement from everyone already present, troopers and officers alike, and Kylo allows himself a small smile.

The First Order has never done anything so openly celebratory before.

It is only right that it is done now for Hux.

Grand Marshal-elect Hux looks absolutely stunning when he arrives. He’s dressed all in white, in the uniform that Kylo had ordered for him, and his cape flutters out dramatically behind him as he strides up to Kylo, takes his rightful place at Kylo’s side.

“You came,” Kylo says.

On his other side, Nebulosa huffs, her nails clicking on the floor as she settles in next to him.

“Mandatory requirement of the job,” Hux says. He side-eyes Kylo for a moment, before looking back at the squadrons of troopers facing them. “This is excessive.”

“It’s necessary,” Kylo says. He reaches down and scratches at his hound’s ears, the flared sleeve of his black overgown draping onto her back until Kylo straightens. He keeps his head level the entire time, so as not to offset the headpiece he’s wearing, the silver spikes of it haloed out around his head in an echo of the First Order’s logo. “And she’s perfectly well behaved.”

Hux says nothing, just sets his shoulders.

“...the ceremony?” Kylo asks.

“Not the ceremony,” Hux says softly, still staring directly forward, looking out over the ranks of troopers. “The ceremony is...proper.”

“Thank you,” Kylo responds. He keeps his face straight, but feels the warmth of Hux’s praise flushing through his face anyway.

“Your outfit,” Hux continues, “is a travesty.”

Kylo raises his eyebrows, speaks while minimally moving his lips so that none of the troopers facing them will be able to tell what he’s saying. “I don’t know how you would know that, you haven’t made direct eye contact with me once since you got here.”

“Nor will I,” Hux says from beside him. “The uniform regulations for the First Order remain unchanged.”

He wants to say that he’ll change them. He wants to say that he’ll rewrite them so that he gets to see what he wants to see—which is Hux, in his robe, like it used to be. The way that things used to be. But then he remembers his Knights, in an area of the medical wing that he doesn’t let anyone go to anymore, because it’s too dangerous for anyone but him to be there, and he remembers the look in Hux’s eyes when Hux walked away from him. “I am the Supreme Leader,” Kylo says, finally.

“All hail,” Hux responds, and his face is as steady as the beat of his heart in his chest, which Kylo can hear, always, even when he doesn’t mean to be listening.

*

Kylo promotes twelve captains to colonel, six colonels to general. Hux can try as hard as he likes to pretend that he’s not affected—but when Kylo looks at him sidelong, he can see Hux tearing up as he pins a medal onto Unamo’s chest.

“You’ve done well,” Hux says softly. “I’m very proud of you.”

“Sir,” she says, in return. She reaches out and touches the sleeve of Hux’s coat, the contact so brief that Kylo wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t been looking.

Then she turns to Kylo, nods at him. “Supreme Leader.”

“General Unamo. Your work reflects the glory of the First Order. See that it remains that way.”

“All hail the First Order,” she says. “All hail the Supreme Leader.”

On further reflection, watching her walk ramrod straight, going back to the ranks and joining the other officers, Kylo will allow her earlier indiscretion in touching Hux’s coat. This is a time of ceremony and celebration.

Unamo poses no risk to Kylo anyway.

Next to him, Hux sighs.

If they were closer—if they had been able to maintain what they had on Jakku—Kylo would have leaned over and said something funny in Hux’s ear, forced Hux to bring his white-gloved hand up to his mouth to hide the quirk at the corners of his mouth. Kylo would have offered to have repeated the promotion ceremony again, later. In private. Would have promoted Hux from his knees, sucked him down and made him twitch and squirm, lapped at his cock and balls, pressed his cock inside him—

“Unless you’ve changed your mind,” Hux says in an undertone from beside him, “I believe it’s my turn.”

Kylo turns to him, looks at him through his false eyelashes. “I have a speech,” he says, softly. “Please step forward.” This is something he hadn’t bothered doing for the other promotions—because there was nothing to say other than everything that came inherent with the promotion.

But this—giving Hux a title that Snoke had denied him, giving Hux a title that accurately reflects the work that he does and has done for the Order, giving Hux a thing that he’s deserved for years that Kylo will give to him directly, right from his hand, giving Hux something that he’s wanted for this long—

— _wanna take you to bed, make love to you all night long_ —

—is going to feel amazing.

“This promotion,” Kylo says, using the Force to amplify his voice, letting it ripple out over the entire audience, “is long overdue. The man standing before me has devoted his entire life to the Order, from the time that he was a very small child. Under Grand Admiral Rae Sloane’s tutelage, he has risen rapidly through the ranks, and reached the rank of General before age thirty—and there he stayed.”

In front of him, Hux’s shoulders tighten.

“Our prior Supreme Leader was—short-sighted. Unfocused. Isolated. He asked more out of this man than what was appropriate for his rank—and he gave him nothing back in return for his hard work but pain and suffering. The same pain and suffering that he gave to me. The same pain and suffering that I struck him down for.” Kylo forces himself to take a deep breath, tries to compose himself. He reaches forward with the Force, reaches to Hux out of habit—and Hux is closed off, cold.

Ice.

“Under my leadership, the First Order will recognize the hard work of its citizens. The First Order will recognize the work being done. I am everywhere. I am watching. I am listening. And I see.” Kylo steps forward so that he stands directly behind Hux, puts his hand on Hux’s shoulder. “General Armitage Hux,” he says, his voice booming out over the thousands of gathered soldiers. “Today, I promote you to Grand Marshal, and I am quite confident that this is not the last promotion I will be honoured to give to you.”

There. A ripple of warmth.

Not a flame, not yet—but it’s a sign.

Kylo is back on the correct path.

“Turn to me,” Kylo intones, his voice still Force-amplified.

Hux turns, adjusts his cloak, smooths his white-gloved hands down the front of his pristine white jacket.

Then Kylo pulls the Force back, lowers his voice so that only Hux can hear him. “I would not be where I am today without you,” he says, softly.

Hux’s face goes pale, and then red, his lips thinning out into a tight line.

“I’m going to give you everything,” Kylo says, voice still quiet, lips hardly moving. He is no longer conscious of everyone watching them, no longer conscious of the hum from all the minds surrounding them, no longer conscious of anything but the man in front of him. He reaches into the pocket of his robe, and pulls out the small case that holds Hux’s medal, carefully opens it and holds it out so that Hux can see it. “You’ve been thinking about this,” he breathes.

The medallion is perfect—a gold heart, perfectly cast and polished to a mirror shine. The symbolism is clearly to Kylo—and thus, he knows it will be clear to Hux as well. Hux has never deserved anything more than he deserved this—especially since Snoke had rebuffed every attempt that Hux had ever made to get ahead— _there is nothing my apprentice needs to see there_ , only Snoke had been wrong about that just as he had been wrong about everything else, because what Kylo had needed to see from Hux had been everything, absolutely everything, and if he’d known everything, he could have eliminated Snoke _before_ they had gone to Dorsoduro, and none of this would have happened—

Hux’s eyes widen, and he stares down at the gold medallion.

“This medallion represents the Order,” Kylo says. “And thus, I give it to you.”

Hux’s eyelashes flutter, and he breaks his eyes away from the medallion in order to look up to the ceiling for a moment. When he swallows, Kylo watches his throat move, and he wants to flick the closure of his high collar open with the Force, wants to lay his thumb on Hux’s pulse. Wants to reach out to him, wants to touch.

“I’m ready. Are you?”

“Yes,” Hux breathes.

Kylo plucks the medallion out of its velvet bed, and then floats the case back to his pocket. He takes a step downward so that he’s standing on the same level as Hux, inclines his head, and leans forward, numb fingertips brushing the fabric of Hux’s jacket. He carefully attaches the medallion, fastening it to the magnet that’s been sewn into the lining.

“I’m not just giving you this, though,” Kylo says. He knows that his own body is mostly obscured by Hux’s—and, thus, everyone can see that Kylo’s lips are right by Hux’s ear, but no one can see what Kylo is saying. “I’m giving you _everything_.”

“The promotion is all I need,” Hux says. He brings up his hand and touches his gloved fingertips to the medallion.

It’s an effort for Kylo to pull himself away from Hux’s presence. This is the closest they’ve been since—since their date, and Kylo cannot handle anything that reminds him of the separation that happened afterward, but it’s necessary. Everything about this is necessary.

“People of the First Order,” Kylo says, stepping away from Hux, and amplifying his voice again. “I present to you, Grand Marshal Armitage Hux.”

“All hail,” the crowd responds, and everyone that is looking back at them is fanatical, proud, beaming.

Kylo looks over at Hux. There are two spots of colour high on his cheeks, and there is one single tear trickling down his face that he makes no effort to wipe away.

*

“And the Grand Marshal’s gift?”

“In the gardens, Supreme Leader,” FN-2187 says.

“Thank you.” Kylo looks out across the ballroom. It’s military, of course—nothing like the state affairs that he attended as a child, when everything was all white columns and non-human decor. This room is, like everything else in the First Order, sensible. Black floors, black walls, silver accents. They’ve brought flowers in from the greenhouses—the only concession to beauty, and Kylo can sense the spikes of discomfort that continue to pulse up from the ballroom—but things are different, under his leadership, and they will get used to it.

They will learn to appreciate the beauty in the things that they have. They will learn to desire.

He brings his fingers up to his chest, touches the silver keys that hang there on his sternum. There isn’t much of his skin exposed, but what is exposed is subtly glittered. The chain for the key to his cage hangs just below the neckline of his tunic, but can be exposed with merely a thought.

Kylo closes his eyes, skims across all the minds gathered below. He picks out the individual officers with ease—there, the cluster of officers from the Finalizer, Unamo beaming with pride, there, a small pocket of officers from Retribution, there, the officers from Negator under General Numa Falensarano. Hux is not with the other officers from the Finalizer, but he is easy to locate—a cold stiff spear of ice, standing apart from everyone else.

It will not do. This is a time of celebration.

This is Hux getting what he has craved for years.

This is Kylo undoing Snoke’s wrongs.

“Attention,” Kylo says, amplifying his voice and sending it out over the durasteel gloss ballroom below. “This is a time of celebration. This is a time to celebrate what we have and what we have achieved. What we will achieve in the future. The First Order is comprised of the most hard-working, the most courageous, and some of the most intelligent beings. The First Order came up from scraps of the Empire in the Outer Rim, and today, we stand upon the deck of the most glorious battleship in existence.” Kylo pauses, lets them look at him. They’re all looking at him. They know who he is—and they know who he is not. “I am your Supreme Leader,” he says. “And under my command—we will take this time to mark the significance of this event.”

He clears his throat—an affectation, the volume at which he is speaking is one that he could speak at indefinitely. “It has been two years since I had the utmost pleasure of joining the First Order, and I stand here at its head. It has been an honour, and I look forward to speaking to you again, this time next year, when our accomplishments are that much greater.” He raises his hand, gestures down at the room below—at the refreshments and the great ballroom, the polished floors and the high ceiling, everything undecorated but for the flowers. “Please,” he says, as though it is a request and not an order. “Dance. Enjoy yourselves.” He scans the crowd until he makes eye contact with Hux, and then lets go of the Force, lets himself just watch his Grand Marshal for a moment.

There is a slight shift behind him—not an audible thing, but something that Kylo feels through the Force.

“You are dismissed, FN-2187,” Kylo says. “I have no further need of you.”

“Supreme Leader,” the trooper responds, but he doesn’t turn to leave.

Kylo pauses in the act of unclasping his cape, looks back over his shoulder. “Yes?”

The trooper hesitates again. “I’m going to the gardens,” he announces finally. His voice doesn’t waver, but his presence in the Force does.

As though Kylo would take this away from him. This is a time for celebration.

“Of course,” Kylo says. “Enjoy yourself.”

“Supreme Leader,” the trooper repeats.

Kylo watches him go, marching purposefully, and allows himself to smile. Given a few more years—their loyalty to him will not be faceless, their loyalty to him will not be without purpose, he will give them what they need and they will return it ten—

—a shudder, from the Force. Kylo looks down onto the ballroom, extends his consciousness outward, listens with the Force. Hux is now surrounded by a group of women, chatting to him about—

— _what was he like, before? The Supreme Leader? Did you know who he used to be?_ —

Hux’s head tilts, perhaps unconsciously, his eyes lifting up to the balcony and meeting Kylo’s directly.

Kylo doesn’t need to hear it with the Force, because he can read it on Hux’s lips.

“He was never who you thought he was,” Hux says, coldly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I find myself in need of another drink.”

Kylo smiles slightly, and pulls his consciousness back into himself. Unclasps his cape, and lets it fall to the floor. Without the cape, his arms are bare in his sleeveless tunic, the gnarled scar on his shoulder painted with silver, just as the scar on his face. His dress tunic falls to his thighs in the front, has long tails in the back. His dress pants are tight and well-fitted, his shoes black but with silver soles that are visible when he walks. He’s wearing minimal jewelry today, relying on his face and his hair, elaborately braided and shot through with silver chain.

Hux is already halfway through his next drink. He is still alone. Everyone else is dancing, and Hux is alone.

That won’t do.

*

“Grand Marshal,” Kylo says warmly. “Allow me.” He exchanges the empty glass in Hux’s hand with a full one—champagne with gold flakes suspended in it, the glass glittering in the light as the bubbles move—and vanishes the empty one somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchens.

Hux says nothing in response, just tightens his hand around his drink and stares at a fixed point somewhere over Kylo’s shoulder.

“Have you had a chance to speak to Knight-Captain Phasma yet?”

“We’ve spoken,” Hux says tersely.

“I did invite her,” Kylo continues. “But the closest she would get was to manage my security.”

“Mmm,” Hux says. He takes a drink from his champagne. “She’s been...thriving here,” he says, finally.

“I’m sure you miss her,” Kylo says gently.

(The sharp pop of pain snapping through the Force from Hux digging his nails into his palms does not go unnoticed.)

“It is for the best,” Hux says, taking another drink of his champagne, hesitating, and then finishing the glass.

Kylo has so many things he wants to say. Everything from _why did you turn down the position I offered you on the Supremacy_ to _would you still turn it down now_ to _you look so beautiful in white_ , and the words are piling up in his mouth like they’re going to spill out without his consent, like he’s going to say something he doesn’t mean—except he’s over that, now. It’s in the past.

(He’s caged, and it has solved all of his problems. He is no longer distracted by his cock, by his desires, by wanting things that he cannot have. He is focused, now, entirely on the Order, and isn’t that everything that Hux has ever wanted for him? Isn’t that a thing that Hux will be forced to acknowledge?)

He takes a sip of his drink, and the bubbles burn in his mouth.

Hux is looking at him. Actually looking at him—direct eye contact, which there has been precious little of over the last months. Every since Hux turned down the title of Supreme Leader, he has been unable—or unwilling—to look Kylo in the eyes.

He’s looking Kylo in the eyes now.

“Dance with me,” Kylo says, finally. The thought is impulsive, but his voice is measured.

“An order?”

“Yes,” Kylo says, because he does not want Hux to say no.

Hux’s tongue darts out over his lower lip, disappears. He’s shorter than Kylo due to the heels on Kylo’s shoes, and Kylo is suddenly, acutely conscious of the height difference.

There is a moment where he thinks Hux will refuse him entirely even though he told him not to, will clutch his glass and turn and walk away. A moment when Kylo cannot reach out with the Force, because the premonition of Hux’s refusal will stab him in the heart just as certainly as the actual rejection that follows will—

“Fine,” Hux says tightly. He sets his glass on the nearest surface, and then stands in front of Kylo, and waits.

Kylo steps in close, right next to his Grand Marshal. Places one of his hands on Hux’s waist—just as narrow now as he remembers it being on Dorsoduro—and the other on Hux’s shoulder. After a moment’s hesitation, Hux mimics the action in reverse—his left hand on Kylo’s waist, where Kylo can feel the heat of him even though the tunic, and his right hand on Kylo’s bare shoulder.

When they move, they move as one, slipping back into a rhythm that Kylo thought they had lost forever. It’s not like it was, then—there is space between their hips, and Kylo can breathe, still, because he’s not hard and dying of it, he can breathe because he is under control. The room smells of flowers, and there are small groups of people milling about, and he and Hux aren’t the only ones dancing this time—but they may as well be, because Kylo does not have time or space for anyone else, the entire ship falling silent in his head as he watches the play of microexpressions across Hux’s face, and mourns that he can no longer tell what they mean.

“Do you like the uniform,” he asks softly, and underneath his hand, Hux relaxes fractionally.

“I do,” Hux says. “Thank you, Supreme Leader.”

“It should have already been done,” Kylo says.

Hux inhales—and then exhales through his nose, his hand on Kylo’s bare shoulder perfectly still and steadied. “It’s done now,” he says simply.

They start to approach one of the tables where drinks and appetizers are laid out, and Kylo almost thinks to nudge them in another direction—but it doesn’t matter, because Hux is moving them already, circling back into the main part of the room. (Kylo is conscious, now, of the way that people give them space, the way that people are staring—but it feels better, now. Hux is with him, and his face is bare. No one will say anything, because they know that he can dismember them with a thought if he so chooses, they know what he did to Snoke, they know—)

“I agree with your choices,” Hux says. “I would have made the exact same ones for the promotion of Finalizer personnel.”

Kylo ducks his head, smiles. He can feel the heat of his cock cage between his legs, warmed steel brushing against his bare thighs. “Thank you,” he says. Then, it occurs to him. “You will now, if you like. As Grand Marshal. If you want to—circulate among the ships. Review candidates for promotions. Create a...corps, or whatever.”

“Ah, yes,” Hux says. “My very own group of—”

“I have something for you,” Kylo says hurriedly.

Hux looks at him, blinking. His eyes are grey in this light, his sideburns perfect. They’re longer now than they were this time last year, but the look of it suits him, suits him perfectly. Everything about this is perfect, so clearly this is the right time—

“Yes?”

It’s not a difficult trick.

(In his first massacre, he learned about the strength and brutality of his own body. In the second, he learned how to combine that with the Force, how to move quickly enough to accentuate the brutality of his fists, how to punch through skulls and plasteel armour both, how to harness his rage and send it arcing out through his fingertips.)

The key is usually around his neck. Not today.

“The inner pocket of your jacket,” Kylo says.

“Do not magic your belongings—”

“I didn’t,” Kylo says quickly. “It was there the whole time.” He watches Hux’s gloved hand slide inside his jacket, searching out the pocket with the tips of his fingers. “You just didn’t know.” He swallows, feels his composure slipping. “It’s not—really a gift, it’s been—yours the whole time. It’s belonged to you the whole time.”

They’re still dancing. They’re still dancing as Hux’s face goes white, as he draws his hand out from inside his jacket. They’re still dancing as Hux glances down at the object that he holds in his hand.

They stop dancing as Hux closes his fist around it.

“The whole time,” Kylo says, softly.

“This is a key,” Hux says.

“You know what it’s for,” Kylo replies. He feels—belligerent, a little, in a way that he doesn’t, usually. Not these days. It’s just that—this is the right time, and if this is the right time for this, it’s the right time for everything, this is the right place, this is—

“Excuse me,” Hux says softly, and he takes his hand from Kylo’s waist, tightens his grip on the key. Hesitates. And then walks away.

Kylo watches him go, walking briskly, face flat and calm.

That’s fine. It’s fine.

Kylo will—wait it out. No, Kylo will go after him. Kylo will—

He reaches for the Force, lets everything wash over him again. He feels Hux’s presence in the Force like a beacon, like a frozen meteor burning through atmo, like a thing that will crash, a thing that is crashing, if Kylo does not slow him down, does not cradle him to safety, does not do anything to prevent him from burning up.

Kylo draws calm down over his body as though he is putting on a mask, and heads off in the direction of the gardens. _To me_ , he projects with the Force. _Beta entrance. Bring the gift._

As he enters into the gardens, he removes his headdress, sets it to the side so that it doesn’t get snagged on the vines as he walks. As a replacement, he plucks flowers from the vines with the Force, weaves them into his hair as he walks. It’s the only thing he can do to burn off the nervous energy that he’s not supposed to have.

This is the right time. This is the right place.

He shouldn’t feel like this, but he does.

(It’s Hux, it’s always Hux.)

*

FN-2187 snaps to attention the moment Kylo comes around the corner, fumbles and drops his helmet, his face perfectly composed, if naked—and all of his efforts are destroyed because he’s cradling a very small kitten with a bow around her neck in his bare hands, and looks anything other than professional.

“I have the gift,” he says, needlessly, and he sounds so _young_.

Kylo looks at him. This is—the kind of uncouth casualness that Snoke would have thrown Kylo against the wall for. FN-2187’s face is exposed, and his gloves are off, and he was— _playing_ , or something, with the orange kitten before Kylo came around the corner, and none of those things were things that Kylo explicitly requested, and all of those things are punishable, and Kylo—

(welts across his chest and spidering down onto his stomach, Hux tipping his head back and laughing, chest unselfconsciously bare, and the fury building up in Kylo’s stomach, his fingertips burning, his body an inferno of rage—)

—Kylo doesn’t care.

“To me, please,” he says, voice soft. He extends his bare hands, cupped, and FN-2187 takes a step forward, and deposits the kitten into them.

She’s warm and furry and oddly light, smaller than she looks, her voice a high-pitched mewl, and her claws little tiny pricks in the palms of Kylo’s hands before he reaches out with the Force, soothes her.

‘That’s all,” Kylo says, after a moment.

The trooper is gone before Kylo looks up.

(Her little face is just so _tiny_.)

“This way,” Kylo says softly.

*

Hux isn’t difficult to find. He’s tucked away in an obscure part of the gardens, standing next to an air intake, chainsmoking cigarras and staring at the key, which dangles from the fingers of his left hand. His face is pale and his eyes are reddened and he looks absolutely gorgeous in his Grand Marshal uniform, all white and gold and the shine of the heart medallion on his chest.

His eyes rake over Kylo’s face, over the flowers that Kylo has woven into his hair.

“I asked to be excused,” he says, though his voice isn’t as firm as Kylo had expected it might be. “And here you are.”

The kitten makes an inquisitive noise, tail flicking up into the air.

Hux stills for a moment, and then immediately presses his cigarra against the wall to extinguish it, inhales the resulting smoke and coughs. He cannot stop looking at the creature cradled in Kylo’s hands. When he speaks, his voice is rough, fractured. “Supreme Leader—what is the—I mean to say, what is—I—”

“This is for you, too,” Kylo says. He hesitates a moment, and then forges ahead. “This is a significant time period for us, this is—the second anniversary of my joining the First Order, this is—important for us, as…”

Hux’s face has started to go red, but his mouth is still compressed into a tight line.

“As—Grand Marshal and Supreme Leader,” Kylo says, finally. The words don’t resonate in his chest the way that they should. He’s saying the wrong things. He’s made the wrong choices, he’s—

“No,” Hux says.

“No?”

“You can’t—you can’t hold her like that,” Hux says, and with that, he steps forward and closes the space between them, scoops the kitten out of Kylo’s hands and brings it to his own chest. He ducks his head and nuzzles the kitten’s face, murmurs something to it that Kylo is not meant to hear.

( _I’ve got you, now._ )

“It’s a gift,” Kylo says needlessly. The key to his cock cage is hanging down between Hux’s fingers, and the kitten is nuzzled in against Hux’s chest. “It’s for you, Hux.”

The first two fingers on Hux’s left hand twitch, out and away from the kitten, and the chain slides between his fingers, the key falling—

Kylo catches it without thought, uses the Force to lift it back up, loop the chain onto the tips of Hux’s fingers. The chain lies now across the back of his hand, the key dangling toward the floor.

Hux raises his head and stares at Kylo.

“It’s yours,” Kylo repeats. “It’s the key to my—”

Hux’s composure crumples for just a moment—and then shatters completely, and he slumps against the wall. Kylo reaches out his hand to pull everything back together—and Hux takes a step back.

“You don’t understand what you’ve done to me,” Hux says, voice steady and professional and flat. “That’s the absolute worst part of this whole thing. Look at what you’ve done to the Order in Snoke’s absence.” He tips his head in lieu of gesturing, both hands still cradling the little orange kitten to his chest.

“Look at everything we’ve achieved,” Kylo says softly.

“I—I know,” Hux says in response. “You’ve done well, Kylo.”

This is fate, this is what the Force wills, this is the right moment at the right time, he has given Hux everything and now he will get Hux returned to him, now he will get—

“And you don’t even know what you’ve done to me. How badly you’ve hurt me.” Hux swallows, lifts his left hand from his chest and lets the key dangle. “What you’re continuing to do to me.”

“I thought—”

“This is my _turn_ ,” Hux says, his voice intensifying, growing in volume. “You cannot just _let_ this _lie_. Instead, you shove it in my face. I retreated to the Finalizer to be left alone, to finish out my career on an isolated battleship, and you would not let me be. I did exactly as I was supposed to do, and you taunted me. You consulted with me when it was not appropriate for me to be consulted. You brought me into meetings that I had no reason to be in. I applied for that mission in the Outer Rim _and you sent Wu_. You kept me here, and you won’t—you just can’t—I wanted—”

“I needed you here,” Kylo says. “Armitage, I…”

“Go ahead,” Hux says, voice dangerously low. “Tell me what you need, Kylo. Let me deny you one thing, one karking thing. Let me deny you right to your face.”

Kylo shuts his mouth, and stares.

His ears are ringing.

His fingertips are numb.

“If you force me,” Hux says, “to rule beside you. If you turn the Grand Marshal position into some kind of—some kind of _mockery_ , if you taint the legacy of a thing that I have wanted my entire life, I will—I’ll—”

Kylo’s vision blurs, and he shuts his eyes, takes a step back. “I don’t,” he says, and his voice cracks and breaks and shatters. He swallows, hard. “I don’t want that,” he says. “I’ve never wanted that, Ar—Grand Marshal.”

“I can’t do this,” Hux says. “Not like this.”

“....what,” Kylo says, opening his eyes, and squinting at Hux through the dampness.

He should kneel.

He should have knelt in the first place.

He’d meant it when he’d offered the position of Supreme Leader to Hux, he’d meant it sincerely, should he—should he offer it again? Is that what Hux wants? Is that what Hux—

Hux tilts his hand and the silver chain that the key hangs on slides down his fingers, and lands on the floor. Hux lifts his hand to his chest, detaches the Grand Marshal medallion. Stares at it a moment.

(This is fate, this is the will of the Force, this is the right time and the right place—)

Hux opens his hand, and lets the medallion drop to the floor.

They both watch it fall, and neither of them move to pick it up after it lands.

“Are you going to strike me down?” Hux asks conversationally.

Kylo shakes his head, puts his hands behind his back. “No,” he says, voice raspy. “I won’t.”

Hux opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else—and then he closes it again, nods curtly, and turns on his heel, his hand coming back up to his chest so that he’s cradling the kitten with both hands as he leaves.

Kylo doesn’t watch him go.

He watches, instead, the play of light across the gold medallion on the floor, and the small dent in the edge of the heart where it landed on the durasteel.

*

They’re halfway through the fourth course of the banquet when an aide comes to Ren’s side.

“An urgent message from the control room,” she says.

Kylo holds out his hand for the datapad, glances down.

_An unauthorized ship has departed the Supremacy._

Kylo lifts his head, looks immediately to his right where—well, it’s irrelevant. They’ve filled the place beside him, now, a random draw from one of the generals he promoted earlier today, a woman from the Fulminatrix II. It was easier than resetting the entire table. It was easier to just fill the place, make someone else’s day memorable by allowing them to sit at the Supreme Leader’s right hand. Even now, General Enomoto’s fanaticism burns in her eyes. Kylo knows that she would step in front of a blaster bolt for him.

He also knows that he doesn’t care.

He unclips the stylus from the bottom of the datapad. _Authorized_ , he writes in, and then he draws his signature across the bottom.

 _Ship is due to land on Starkiller Base in one hour thirty,_ comes the return message.

 _Let it land_ , Kylo responds, _and wipe out all corresponding data. This is a classified mission, Captain Mitaka._

 _Confirmed_ , comes the answering response. _Mission status has been updated; reports will be sent to your private datapad and nowhere else._

Kylo hands the datapad back to the lieutenant who brought it. “Thank you,” he says, softly. He lowers his hand, pets the hound currently curled at his feet.

When he looks out at the table, he is looking out at the core of the First Order, the skeleton that holds it together.

There was a time that Kylo thought that he was the brains of the First Order, that he was the mind holding the entire thing together in the wake of Snoke’s exceedingly necessary demise.

But he knows, now, what this is.

He knows that he’s nothing more than the hollowed-out heart of it.

The brains of the operation are on Starkiller Base, now.

And Hux isn’t coming back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Warnings:** stalkerish behaviour | extreme use of chastity device (Kylo wears a cock cage 24/7) | character in a coma (Kylo’s Knight)
> 
>  **End Notes:** Well, then, that's a whole bundle of perfectly healthy ways to deal with a breakup, then, isn't it.
> 
> As always, our thanks to Deadsy for reading this over, and screaming about it. Your screams are appreciated.
> 
> There is a moodboard for this chapter, available on [twitter](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1124317711587270657), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/631845), and the [vast barren hellsite](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/184621366601/reach-out-and-touch-faith-710-new-chapter).
> 
> There's an interview for this chapter over on [dreamwidth](https://ktula.dreamwidth.org/4200.html), discussing Kylo Amidala, the Knights, Finn's cameo, and that bit of connection Hux and Kylo almost had.
> 
> There’s also art!
> 
> \- [for chapter seven, by Marzelo](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/180611088471/heyktula-marzarelo-thicc-boi-inspired-by)  
> \- [from chapter three, by Jeusus](https://jeusus.tumblr.com/tagged/reach%20out%20and%20touch%20faith)  
>  
> 
> ktula is on [twitter](https://twitter.com/heyktula), [dreamwidth](https://ktula.dreamwidth.org/), and [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/ktula).
> 
> forautumniam is on [twitter](https://twitter.com/forautumniam), [dreamwidth](https://forautumn.dreamwidth.org/), and [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/forautumn)


	8. The Still Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hux might have no idea where he stands, at present, which is a novel and terrifying experience; but one thing’s for sure, he belongs to Ren.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please refer to the end notes for **content warnings**!

_Dear Ren,_

_It has been a long while since I left you alone in a throne room after a coup, and two full months since I left you again; plenty of time and plenty of changes—your eyes, for example, not to mention your dressing style. And here I am, after everything: almost thirty, and all that can account for changes are deepening lines in the corners of my eyes, and my boots: they fit now. How strange; I feel like I should be entirely transformed after all that's happened between us._

_Maybe you were trying to help, dressing me in white and gold, foreign colours; but I couldn't bear the weight of a grand marshal’s uniform. I told you so. I said everything that needed to be said. Where does that leave us, I wonder?_

_Where do we stand?_

Hux re-reads the letter, mouthing the words (it’s a draft to a speech, if he’s being honest)—then he deletes it, like he deleted all the others, character by character, until the screen is blank.

*

The ocean is vast; arctic waters on an ice planet. The wind is unbearable, but the noise is even worse. The heavy waves breaking sound like something breathing. A slumbering beast. Hux hates this about planets: the life they present, uncontrollable, where even the snow (falling softly now) seems to have consciousness. He looks at the nameless ocean, hugging himself, and thinks of the first humans who ever laid eyes on such immense waters after spending generations on land. He likes to imagine they screamed. Threw rocks at it. They didn’t have the science to explain it used to be their crib.

He remembers the mermaids on Arkanis, the lullabies they would sing. Half-human creatures, each of them over twenty feet. He doesn’t remember being terrified of them. He was warned they eat flesh. It was a fact of life, back then: their presence.

Now he’s living with the ocean.

He should be able to adapt to the present circumstances. That’s what he did with star destroyers; he just did it too well. Got too used to them. The hum of engines, the filtered air.

He swears he can feel Starkiller slowly turning, the distracting weight of gravity. He got out of bed to look at the ocean, because it’s been two months, but he still can’t sleep because of the rumble it makes, and he put on his greatcoat and—he glares at it now as one would at a fire alarm that went off while they were half asleep, trying to assess if there’s any _danger_. His gut says yes. His memories: stay clear of the shores, lest you’ll be pulled in. And then there’s logic.

Logic says: _give up. Go back to space_.

He can’t.

*

The sun is a colourless spot in the sky, faint and distant. The scarce light it emits sneaks up on Hux, lures him out of sleep. He clings to a half-remembered dream, warm eyes and the taste of a kiss, ashes and strawberry ice-cream. He rolls to his side on his narrow cot, burying his face into Millicent’s fur. Her scent is already familiar, calming; the little noises she makes, demanding.

Hux found a home for them by the ocean. It’s not ideal: it’s an observatory, only half-built, North of nowhere. There are hot springs nearby, mighty cliffs, a forest, and that’s it for the landscape: beyond, there’s just an endless plain of ice and snow.

It’s as good a hideout as any. He has work here. What he’s started lacking recently is food; and it wouldn’t matter, if it weren’t for the cat. He could go on a diet, but she needs to be fed well, and although the slurry is suitable for animals, it’s not optimal. Soon, he’ll have to set out, probably to base 03-01G to scavenge the supplies there. He’d only grabbed an overnight bag when he escaped; basic toiletries, clean socks and briefs and a change of clothing, his old general’s uniform.

He’s far too aware that he’s running out of time.

He’ll have to make up his mind.

He mixes the slurry with water, feeds it to Millicent. Skips breakfast himself. Watches her and thinks, _let me finish the repairs_.

After that—

*

Five beams of red light. He sees it in his mind, whenever he closes his eyes. Wherever life takes him, Starkiller has to be finished.

He’ll figure out the technicalities; how to work on a top-secret project as far from the Supreme Leader as possible, unreachable. As he makes his cot he lets himself just _dream_ about Starkiller, the peace it represents. A war won by a single strike.

Red in the sky.

Some planets will observe it immediately; but light doesn’t travel too fast—the rest of the galaxy will continue to see it flare up and disappear throughout a millenia. A constant reminder: _behave yourself_.

_Let there be law and order._

_A strong, central government._

_Equal distribution of wealth._

_Or else._

He stops for a moment when he notices he’s gripping the pillow, hands trembling with excitement. Why wouldn’t he be excited? A sacrifice, yes—civilians—but death will be instantaneous, painless. A blink: now it’s over. But the _impact_. The lives _saved_.

He imagines he’ll have a speech. Voice the reason behind it. Make everyone hear him, loud and clear. And he wouldn’t smile; he’d look sombre, proud, overcome—but he can grin now, even though it fades from his face quickly. No speeches; his name will be buried, like Krennic’s, he’ll be a _disgrace_ , but he’ll—see those lights, surely, wherever life takes him.

He hasn’t defected, per se.

Not yet.

Things need to be fixed, first. And then he can do what Admiral Sloane did; there’s no shame in running when you leave behind a gift, a legacy.

He couldn’t have stayed.

There was no way.

*

He sees Ren in his dreams. The day before his birthday he dreams about being in his university’s library, a space station with a view on a yellow-red nebula, a star slowly tearing itself apart. He’s turning pages of flimsi when he hears Ren, recognises him from his gait.

In his dream, he’s young, still, a bright-eyes student, twenty-three, Ren’s age when he got to know him. He’s working on his final project, on doing something _significant_ , and there are people around in the massive hall, but Ren walks up to him, specifically. He has slim trousers on, a leather jacket, his eyes are brown and his hair is loose.

“You,” Hux says.

The real Ren would show emotion, but this one just steps closer stoically, leans over his table—puts his big hand over a blueprint, leans so close only Hux can hear him.

“Wanna get out of here?”

Something stirs in Hux’s stomach; his cock feels heavy; Ren’s voice is rumbling, deep, and at this point Hux is—lucid dreaming, so he can do—anything, without consequences, and—

“Shy?” he asks. Spreads his legs.

Ren takes the offer. Sinks to his knees, and Hux forces his attention back to the blueprint, but it’s scribbled over with Ren’s name.

*

He wakes up hard, and fumbles for his cock. The ocean moans. Millicent is nosing around in the kitchenette. There’s sunlight, out there, reflecting on the durasteel surfaces, the old-fashioned equipment, illuminating every ugly square meter of his bunker of a bedroom, and catches on his skin—calloused at places, but still pale, with a neat nest of ginger hair where he’s supposed to be smooth and proper. He throws his arm over his eyes, then thinks better of it—drops his hand, pinches a nipple.

Claws at his chest.

Watches the marks fade.

Imagines Ren’s face.

He didn’t pack any—supplies. He was never supposed to end up like this. This wasn’t his destiny.

But this is what it is.

Grand Marshal Hux, degraded to an exiled engineer, fisting his cock with all-purpose lubricant, and biting down on the name of the man who ruined him, who made him like this, with all the love of his heart.

With all the best intentions.

Hux taps at his hole, just the slick tip of a finger, and thinks about— _staying_ , what would have happened if he kept the key. Imagines Ren, with flowers in his hair, bent over a featureless flat surface; his own hands, parting the firm cheeks, surveying with (pride? guilt?) the mess he’s made of him, come sliding down perfect thighs, and pumping his own spent cock so he’d be hard again, ready to be taken in turn.

Ready to be taken in turns by every version of Ren’s disintegrated personality.

Fucking the night away in every pose physically possible, and some that aren’t, hovering in the air as Ren penetrates his used, puffy hole; howling at the impossible stretch, screaming in kriffing ecstasy and not feeling anything.

Not a single thing.

Just fucking, until it doesn’t mean anything. Until Ren is just his favourite sex toy, then his second best.

He could’ve kept his rank, then. He could’ve kept his old life. Given up a handful of cherished memories in turn. Moonlight in the desert.

_Further._

_Yes._

_I can—I can have that?_

 *

The instant caf tastes bitter like remorse. He misses the loose-leaf tarine tea that waits for him abroad the Finalizer, his trusty thermo mug that’d keep his cuppa hot during the better half of his shift; he misses his old job, while he’s at it, misses it with such an intensity that it pains him, makes his chest cave in with the weight of panic. _Kayfour_ , he wants to call, but his droid is locked in a closet, deactivated, and he’s on his hands and knees, installing a new layer of waterproof membrane while chugging down cold caf.

His jodhpurs are soaked through. He’s sick of doing laundry, sick of doing it every day, but he has to, he’s crawling around in melted icewater all day. The consoles are covered with plastic sheets; the place looks like a haunted wreck. He’s been fighting this leakage for a fortnight now, but he lacks the proper equipment and the manpower; he has no hope of resealing the dome alone, so this shit will keep happening until he figures out something.

He could kill for a cigarra.

He could kill for less.

Millicent chirps at him, and he looks up, loose strands of hair in his eyes. She’s standing atop the ladder that connects the tiny living quarters to the flooded control room. He didn’t close the hatch. He didn’t close the karking hatch.

“Don’t come down,” Hux begs. “It’s wet. Shoo, go play in the kitchen, you wanna play in the kitchen?”

With a curious trill, Millicent takes the first step. Hux curses, jumps to his feet; it startles her, and she starts running, down the ladder and into the water.

“Shit,” Hux says, rushes to get her. She must’ve realised her mistake, because she scrambles to get back to the ladder, water flying everywhere. She makes a miserable sound as Hux scoops her up, twists and turns in his arms. He presses her to his chest; she’s so small, and so cold, and entirely soaked.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, hush, it’s okay, it’s okay, let’s get you a towel, let’s get Millie a towel, shit, shit.”

He’s not looking at where he’s going, he’s only looking at her, and he slips. He doesn’t put his arms out, won’t let go of Millicent, so he slams to the metal ladder bodily, the rungs digging into his side and hips, and he just curls up and takes the hit. That’s what he always did.

* 

“It’s no place to live,” he tells Millicent. They’re crumpled into the tiny ‘fresher. “I should take better care of you. I should—”

 _never have accepted you_. He looks at the kitten in his lap, her darling face, and feels like crying. Wants to curl around her and bawl, but he just keeps rubbing her fur mechanically, although it’s dry completely, she’s okay, she’s safe.

It’s selfish to rub her ears, to press a kiss on her forehead. He must find her a new owner. He failed, and he’ll keep failing if he keeps her. 

“I’ll fix the leak. I won’t forget to close the hatch, I’ll—”

_go back_

Bruised and shivering, he still denies that that’s an opportunity. But maybe Ren would take her—back to the sender—stupid Ren and his stupid dog, but he treats her well, that karking thing is spoiled _rotten_ , and Millicent deserves nothing less. She shouldn’t live like a child of divorced parents.

The ceremony was a wedding. 

He gave back the ring. A heart-shaped medal on the ground.

Everything is shattered, but his pride is intact.

Everything is—

*

The ocean is roaring and seabirds scream. Hux just needed a walk, just needed a minute, just needed to get away. He put on his white-gold uniform while his blacks tumble in the dryer, he scooped up Millicent, and he set out in the vague direction of the sun.

The sky is a pale pink, distant and almost translucent, and the snow reflects the light back, sparkling and glinting.  A winter wonderland; what counts as _spring_ here. He wanted to carry Millicent around, get some fresh air, scream in the woods, go back, but she insisted on trotting behind him, exploring; he’ll have to dry her fur again, but it doesn’t matter. Her thin tail is raised like a flag as she follows Hux’s steps, the path he makes for them. He keeps going even when the observatory fades from the horizon, presses on until he’s short of breath and his side aches, the bruises pulse and his eyes no longer sting.

The pines creak, a silent scream as a gust of wind pushes at their snowy branches. There’s something _black_ there, a tall, dark silhouette materialising at the treeline. It appeared out of thin air, an impossible figure, but Hux would recognise him anywhere, that wide set of shoulders, the aura of power. Ren’s dressed in a sheer black cape that dances on the wind, chest covered with jewellery, a circlet upon his head; he’s motionless—a perfect vision of beauty, wealth, strength. Hux gives him a weary smile as their eyes meet. _So_ _I’ve gone insane,_ he thinks, _I’m seeing things_ —but Millicent rushes ahead, meowing at the still figure.

 _He’s come to take her_ , Hux realises, and freezes.

_No, no, no. Don’t. I didn’t mean it, I—_

“Millicent!” he calls, desperate, voice shrill and—

“You named her,” Ren says. Crouches down to pet her, and Hux is—suffering, he cannot—be here, it cannot be—“Millicent, what a beautiful name you have.”

“Please,” Hux says. “ _Please_.”

Ren looks at him again, eyes yellow and crimson like the nebula of the library, the scar across his face blood-red, and he says, “I come in peace.”

Hux starts laughing, gobsmacked, the reaction shocked out of him. It’s such a cliché. It’s what invaders in holonovellas say. Ren is here—he came to take something, teleported himself here, he could only give two months of peace and quiet, and now he’s going to take it back, and he’s going to take Millicent, and he’s going to take the dress uniform, and Hux will walk back to the observatory naked, cold, helpless—

“It’s your birthday,” Ren says, stroking Millicent’s head. He’s not looking at Hux any longer—he’s watching his boots, and his face doesn’t show emotions; but there’s a stubborn set to his lips, his brows knitted quizzically, and his eyes—they’re terrified.

Hux steps closer; just ten, nine, eight steps between them. The snow dips around Ren’s heavy boots, the wind plays with his cape, he’s _really_ here, he—he came.

(Hux expected he’d come rushing after him when he exited that throne room; he had the same expectation when he dropped the medal to the ground. Ren stayed behind, both times.)

“Happy fucking birthday to me,” he says.

(This is what happens when you play games: you might lose. So he got the compensation prize they asked for. Space, undisturbed.

A burden.)

“Please don’t get mad,” Ren says, addressing his knees. “I didn’t come to impose—”

“Why did you come,” Hux asks, flat. Has the urge to crouch down as well, so Ren would be forced to look at him. Made to take in his naked pain.

“We need to discuss how to go forward. There was no discussion when you left. No closure.”

“Yes. There wasn’t.”

“Your crew,” Ren goes on, gets uncertain. That fleeting second of hesitation is unbearably humiliating; _they_ are _my crew_ , Hux wants to tell him, _they would be, if I was still a general, if you didn’t make me into something you thought could keep on loving you_ —

“What about my crew?”

Ren picks up Millicent and gets to his feet. He looks somewhere above Hux’s shoulder.

“They are starting to get suspicious,” he reports. “I do what I can; officially, you’re on a classified mission, but everyone knows it’s not like you—”

“No, it’s not like me to run away,” Hux interrupts. Ren meets his eyes, if only for a second.

“They sent you gifts,” he says as he holds out Millicent. Hux closes the distance to get her.

“More gifts,” he notes, letting her climb onto his shoulder. Ren’s left eye twitches.

“Only from them,” he says. “I didn’t contribute. I was a bit slow, I’ll admit, but I got the hint, eventually, I supposed you wouldn’t—”

“You guessed right.”

“It’s your birthday,” Ren says again, firmer. Hux is looking at the glint of silver over his chest. Delicate chains; a spider web of luxury. Ren must know it’s not Hux’s style; he prefers men in uniforms, men in leather, it’s—not to appeal to him. Ren is not here to _appeal_. “You shouldn’t spend it alone.”

Hux opens his mouth to say something, but Ren interrupts, “I know you don’t want to spend it with me, but I had to let you know that others, that your crew—”

“Yes.”

“—and there was no way to reach you, you cut off—I thought about sending Phasma—”

“I’m glad you didn’t, she would’ve murdered me,” Hux mutters. His gaze drops to Ren’s belt, the fly of his trousers. _Does he still wear that thing_ , he wonders.

“I got the same impression,” Ren says so seriously Hux can’t help but crack a thin smile. Ren shoulders off a leather bag, pulls out a box without any fuss. It’s reasonably sized, barely decorated. The anxiety of the ceremony still kicks in: Hux feels his heart beating rapidly and he can taste stale champagne as he looks at the box.

_Run run run run run_

“Anyway,” Ren says, “many happy returns, and please think about the future ahead. Contact me when you feel ready to discuss what’s to become—”

“Right,” Hux says, reaching for the box.

“And should you rather speak to someone else, we can find a—”

“You really didn’t get me anything?” Hux gives an experimental shake to the box, earning a noise of complaint from Millicent curled over his shoulder.

“I didn’t think it’d be appropriate,” Ren says. “I’m not here to change anything. I didn’t come here to violate—”

“Do you have cigarras?” Hux asks. They lock gazes. Ren swallows heavily.

*

Blue smoke curls up towards the sky. It tastes like cloves; relaxes Hux completely, it washes away the anxieties of the leak, and Millicent’s accident, and Ren’s very presence. He’s standing a feet apart from him, back pressed to the observatory’s wall. They left Millicent inside, and now they both pretend to look at the roaring ocean, although Hux can tell Ren is stealing glances at him, wants to talk, wants to say something, but he’s probably afraid it’d be the wrong thing.

A curious change.

Yet, Hux is not convinced.

Ren always had his moments of clarity; often _started_ to go down the right path, then he’d pull the breaks, go into reverse and crash. He’s chaos and mayhem; he’s a _Skywalker_ ; he should be avoided. And yet.

Hux takes another cigarra from the package, and Ren lights it for him with the tip of a finger.

“Just one more,” Hux says. “You’ll catch a cold.”

Ren looks down at himself, makes a face, takes a drag, and mumbles, “Came straight from work.”

Something twitches in Hux’s stomach that Ren would call it that, something envious and pleasant. He proved to be a disappointingly capable Supreme Leader.

“What inspired—” Hux makes a vague gesture at him with his cigarra. “I never asked.”

“My grandmother,” Ren says. “Her, and Alderaan. I thought I’d need to look the part of royalty.”

“You certainly have a unique take on it.”

“I suppose. I don’t know. Gives me confidence? Besides, it’s comfortable.” He takes another drag.

“And smoking,” Hux says. “When did you—”

“We’re not here to talk about me.”

“For a change.”

“You’re being friendly,” Ren says, colourless, but Hux catches a tremble of his lips from the corner of his eyes. He’s not wearing his usual makeup today, just kohl around his eyes, and maybe his lips are redder than they have any right to be. “You don’t have to be friendly.”

“I’m not. I’m being a sarcastic little prick.”

Ren smiles at that, then schools his features. Hux grins, smugly, and inhales the fragrant smoke deep.

(He does not think about their date.)

“You don’t have to be friendly,” Ren insists, “because there’s no point. We will never be friends, much less anything else.”

“Oh?”

“I put ourselves in a situation when I’m your superior,” Ren goes on, “and it wasn’t fair to you, and I tried to fix it, but I went about it—”

“—all wrong.”

“Yes.”  He clears his throat. Looks ready to cry, and Hux wants to roll his eyes at him, like he—didn’t spend most of the last year with the same activity. (It’s good for stress relief. There’s _scientific evidence_.) “Your job is important to you, so I want to negotiate how to guarantee that you can do your duties comfortably. And as I said, this conversation, if it happens at all, should only happen on your terms, including whether you’re willing to talk to me, or a representative—”

“I’m talking to you now,” Hux says. “It doesn’t hurt, I’m not—stop acting like I’m so fucking fragile. I’m fine.”

Ren lets smoke pour down his lips with a final exhale, puts out his cigarra on the wall. Turns to Hux, leaning on an elbow, and says, earnest, “I promise I won’t keep doing this. I realise it’s intrusive. I had some time to think. The—ceremony sobered me. I’ll stop—barging into your life like this, but for that to work under our present conditions we need to co-operate one final time, to figure out a permanent solution so you can forget about me entirely.”

Hux nods, bites his lips. Doesn’t mention to Ren what being cornered like this does to him; how he feels like a squirming virgin under Ren’s gaze, in his looming presence, how he’s hard, again, because he knows these things—love, desire—don’t really matter.

He’s thirty.

He has to get his shit together. Get over himself. Serve the Order.

“I can go,” Ren says softly. “Do you want me to go?”

Hux shakes his head before he can think better of it.

“I might have some use of you yet.”

*

Reinstalling the panels on the outside of the dome is gruelling work. Ren and he are hanging on ropes for dear life, and Hux tries his best not to let his mind wander while watching Ren all tied up in a safety harness like that. It really accentuates his dick, or the cage, or both. He’s changed clothes; he put on the Order’s winter uniform, which is not helping with Hux’s libido, who just got his stuff back from the dryer and doesn’t want to cream his trousers. If only Ren did the courtesy of getting—smaller, bulge-wise or otherwise, or just less handsome, but that scar only makes him look _rough_ , and his face is less boyish now—he’s twenty-five, and pain, responsibility, or whatever it was has hardened him, he looks like—he doesn’t sleep much, eyes red and cheeks hollow, but he looks so good, especially with that circlet still around his noble forehead—

“Hux,” he says softly, and Hux realises he’s been staring. He passes him a laser drill wordlessly. Has a hard time letting go of it. The brief connection of holding the same object seems too significant.

“Awful weather,” he croaks out as Kylo starts to drill a hole into the rafters he’s hanging next to.

“Uh-huh.”

“At least it’s not snowing,” Hux says, voice raised. “I can’t do it on the days it’s snowing.”

“Mm.”

Hux looks him over. “Must you be a balland?” he asks.

Ren turns off the drill. “What?”

“Contribute to the bloody conversation.”

Ren scowls, looks down at his handiwork. He hands the drill back, gets four steel bolts from his utility belt, and starts torquing them down as if nothing had been said. Hux aims the drill at him and imitates the sound of a blaster.

“Don’t pew me,” Ren says, voice hoarse. “I’m just—trying to set boundaries.”

“Don’t set _my_ boundaries _for_ me.”

Ren stops what he’s doing, wrench halting in mid-air.

“Stars,” Hux sighs, “did it _just_ occur to you to—”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Just talk to me, alright? I haven’t talked to another human being in two months.”

Ren looks even more pained. Hux is tempted to throw the drill at him, to scream, _it’s my pain, not yours_ , but he has a useful little thing called self-control.  

“Sorry,” Ren says.

Hux sighs at that. “Save it,” he mutters, and starts drilling holes, because that’s his life now. Drilling holes. Fastening mounts to the dome. Fastening panels to the mounts. He has a masters in engineering. He started thinking about that as his main achievement.

“You look good,” Ren says. Clears his throat. 

“You don’t have to hit on me, just do—small talk.”

“I meant black becomes you.”

“You said the same thing about white,” Hux grumbles. He wishes he wasn’t blushing, slightly. It’s a lousy compliment, it’s _meaningless_ ; if Ren was going with flirting he could at least make it original—

“It’s your decision,” Ren goes on. “Black or white.”

For a moment, Hux thinks he’s talking about some spiritual crap, but a look at Ren’s open face tells him they’re back at that—proposed discussion, where Hux can decide his own future, Grand Marshal or General, Supremacy or the Finalizer, or something else, anything and everything, ever, _no pressure_.

“Please share your insight on the weather,” Hux says, pained.

Ren nods solemnly. Why can’t they just communicate, they almost had something when they were smoking, didn’t they, but—it feels like a chore now, like Ren can’t just—talk to him, like it will go to shit again, it will—

“I always loved cold in nature, ever since I was little,” Ren says, “the crisp scent in the air; it kills me in space, but uh, yeah. It’s different.”

“How is it different?” 

Ren sniffs, goes back to his hydraulic wrench, but keeps talking. “I don’t know. It keeps changing, for one thing. You cannot just get used to it. And it’s—alive, if you know what I mean. It chews at you.”

“And you enjoy that,” Hux says. Ren snorts at that. Something inside Hux melts.

“I can’t feel my toes,” Ren announces, delighted.

“We could go back inside. Caf break, huh?”

“Go ahead, I think I can finish up like, four more.”

Hux smiles at him when Ren isn’t looking.

*

There’s a spring in Hux’s steps as he gets back to his miserable quarters, sidestepping the yellow safety lines painted on the floor, not even sparing a glance to the consoles’ screen he usually checks compulsively. Millicent is playing with the sixth attempt of a toy he made (the rest of them lie around like constant reminders of failure). She makes a noise at him as he grabs a pipe for balance, tries to compose himself, cheeks bright and cock hard and—

“Hush,” he says, “Quit judging me. He’s the love of my life, do you understand? He’s—yeah.”

He runs a hand through his hair, licks his lips, tastes cloves there. He could drink it up from Ren’s mouth, it wouldn’t even have to mean anything: it could be one last kiss—they could keep breaking up like this. Heartbreak with benefits.

He notices the box on the bed. He didn’t open it, he just put it there before he rushed to change clothes, and now he feels guilty about it; his crew got him a _gift_. He gets the hidden vibroblade from his cuff. The cut is vicious, precise, sharp.

“Still got it,” he mutters.

The package reveals a bottle of Cheedoan whiskey, the one they called _spoils of war_ , a tin box of tea leaves (tarine, naturally) and a crumpled card made of flimsiplast. Hux opens it, scowling; there’s a printed message there, _happy 30th birthday_ , but they scribbled _sir_ there, and they didn’t even forget the comma. It’s signed by his officers. All of them. And project leaders. Even his chief engineer. Even _Peavey_.

He doesn’t know who had the gall to make him sign, but they deserve a promotion. He keeps staring at the names, just stands there and stares, even though he’s craving the tarine, badly, and he should just make himself a cup of tea, but he—he turns the card, opens it again. Well. He shan’t keep it, obviously. It’s a list of people who are affiliated with the Order, and their privacy deserves the utmost protection. Still. What a nice thought.

How nice of them.

 _Do you miss me_ , he wonders _. I promised I'd always report to duty._

_I promised._

_I took a bloodoath when I was_ six _.They cut my wrist._

*

"I need reconditioning," he tells a dumbfounded Ren. He’s sitting on the floor cradling a bottle, Millicent in his lap. He’s still wearing the safety harness. Ren’s half-emerged from the hatch, fur-collared greatcoat hanging heavily over his shoulders, the circlet shining over his forehead. Hux’s commander. His leader. _Ruler_.

“Are you drunk?” Ren asks.

“Getting there. Care to join the journey?”

Ren shakes his head, climbs the rest of the way up. Instinctively curls his shoulders, although the ceiling is not as low as it seems. He looks around, presumably for a place to sit; his gaze lingers on the bed, then he turns away blinking.

“I don’t drink,” he says, voice rough. Hux wants to kick him in jesting warning, but Ren’s too far away, four or five steps: the other side of the room, to be exact.

“I’ve seen you drink.”

“I rather wouldn’t. Thank you.”

“Why not?” Hux teases. He’s not even tipsy yet, but he’s starting to feel the warmth of the whiskey, and it feels like the bottle gives him the authority to be silly, to make an arse of himself; it’s like a sacred object, and whoever hold it shall be allowed to not give a damn.

Ren meets his eyes. “I don’t think it’d be a good idea,” he says. And that’s unfair.

“It’s my birthday,” Hux complains. “I’m _thirty_ , leave adult decisions to me.”

“I didn’t say _you_ couldn’t drink.”

Hux raises the bottle. “Praise be to thy generosity.”

Ren waits a beat, then sets his jaw, and grits out, “I should go.”

“Out of the question; why don’t we have a little party?”

“I don’t want to be around you when you’re drunk; it’s irresponsible, and—”

“I’m not drunk,” Hux objects. Ren heads to the hatch, which means he passes Hux, who reaches after his hand, then thinks better of it. That’s right. He’s not drunk. He’s not that far gone.

Ren starts climbing the ladder.

“Arsehole,” Hux spits at him.

“I’m finishing up the roof.”

“Coward.”

“Stop. I’m doing this—”

“What? For me?” Hux surges forward; Ren is at the same level as him, only climbed some tentative steps, and of course he’s stopped now, of course he’s waiting for _orders_. “You keep doing things for me, is that it? You’re protecting me.”

“That’s not it,” Ren says. Lies to him.

“Smell my breath,” Hux says. “Do whatever. I won’t be begging for hanky panky in a drunken haze. It’d take more than a bottle of whiskey to fuck you. I don’t _want to_.”

Ren makes a face at that. Good. An eye for an eye, a lie for a lie—he doesn’t say, _I’d want to be clear-headed._

_I’d want to remember every inch of you._

_I’d want you to recite your safewords in order, show me you haven’t forgotten._

_I’d want you to knock; once for yes, a beat, and once again—keep saying yes, yes, yes._

“I just want to talk,” Hux says.

Ren pulls himself up (the show-off he is) and takes a seat on the hatch’s edge, feet dangling down into the pit. He’s facing Hux, head tilted. Between them: a gap.

“What did you want to talk about? I’ll listen.”

“Stop it. It’s not about your—crap. I just want to—” He bites his lips. Thinks that it might scare Ren, that’d he’d—recoil, but he peeks at him, and his pupils are blown.

Doesn’t matter. The more he drinks, the less likely it is that they’ll make a mistake. So he takes a gulp, and offers the bottle.

“Last chance.”

“Some water, perhaps.”

“Well, I’m not offering _water_. It’d be good for your throat. You sound awful.”

“It’s my normal voice,” Ren croaks. Hux gives him a lopsided smile.

“It really isn’t.”

Ren accepts the bottle. Hux watches him take a swig with practiced ease, his throat working and eyes fluttering shut.

“What are you doing?” he asks softly.

“Spare me the mindgames. You wanted me to drink.”

“No, this—whole thing. Is this an attempt to redeem yourself?”

Ren chuckles. “Hardly.” Passes him the bottle.

“Keep it. I really think you caught a bug.”

“Your loss,” Ren shrugs. The bottle ends up in his lap, untouched _. What a fucking waste_ , Hux thinks. Like that cock-cage, like—everything. Sitting in a miserable room like this, young, in love, and paralysed by the past. He’s is acutely aware of the distance between them, and turns to Millicent for comfort, tries to stroke her head, but she squirms away the last minute.

“I need to set you free,” Ren says, making Hux shudder. He has his back to Ren, twisting to watch Millicent walk away.

“Don’t put it like that. I was never your prisoner.”

“Weren’t you?”

Hux gives him a glance, allows it to linger. Ren’s hair is damp from snow and sweat, the luxurious curls hanging limp, and a shadow of stubble started showing on his chin. It’s a good look on him. Everything is.

“I wish I met you like this,” Hux tells him. “I wish this was the first time I ever saw you. I wish I hadn’t known you from before. _Then_ I’d make a move. I’d try to seduce you. Be your consort.”

Ren looks stricken, just for a moment, then gives him a smile that doesn’t mean anything. His eyes are distant, still. “Would you suffocate me with a pillow on our wedding night, or would you wait until the honey—”

“Do you mind that I’m still in love with you?” Hux interrupts. There: now he has the upper hand. Ren doesn’t look uncomfortable, like he hoped, just infinitely, irreversibly sad. It’s unbearable.

“I love you back,” he says.

Hux licks his lips, chasing the taste of whiskey. His tongue catches on something bitter. “Did you hope it would fade away? Is that why you wouldn’t—”

“ _You_ left me first,” Ren says.  “You left me to perish with Snoke’s corpse—”

“Oh, come off it. You were _fine_. And you left. You left me in a hotel—”

“Are you still caught up on—”

“Yes, I’m still caught up on that, because you don’t know what it was _like_ ,” Hux says, “you don’t know what I went through, you never even asked, having all those expectations, those beautiful kriffing hopes—”

“I had them, too,” Ren interjects, voice gentle.

“Piss off,” Hux grits. Gets to his feet. His back is pressed to the wall, but the flooring is a bit—uncertain. He’s drunker than originally anticipated. He rubs at his temples, hating that Ren sees it, expects him to be smug about it, _I told you not to drink_.

“A walk?” Ren suggests. Hux nods, even though it makes his head pound. He needs to sober up. He thought about having this conversation a million times. He only has one shot; Ren must have his own agenda, and he’ll get what he came here for, and leave. It’s important that Hux makes him understand—

It matters, because—

It still matters, and—

*

The darkness outside seems boundless; it ate up the ocean, the horizon, even the snowy ground. Ren chuckles, raises his hand: golden sparks like lazy bugs fly up, go ahead to illuminate the way.

“Northern hemisphere,” Hux explains.

“Yeah, it’s wild. The sun was out a moment ago.” Ren squints up at the observatory’s cupola, makes a face, then starts walking. Hux hesitates to follow, but can’t bear to lose sight of him; he can’t just have Ren vanish into the black afternoon. He tags along, pulling on his gloves and cursing when he realises he mixed up left and right.

It takes him a moment to notice the tingling sound in the still air, a curious, high-pitched whisper. He looks at the sky, and sure enough, polar lights stretch over the stars; just a faint green hue, nothing more, but it will get stronger as the day darkens.

“It’s beautiful,” Ren says. Hux refuses to make an observation of his own, just mutters something vaguely affirmative, and follows Ren through the crunching snow. It seems they’re headed back to the forest where Ren appeared; Hux wonders, idly, if he’ll vanish there. He looks like a prince from old wives’ tales with his silver circlet and gold lights, with the brass of his eyes. He walks slowly, like in a dream, enchanted by the sky, and says something Hux doesn’t quite catch.

“What?”

“ _Soplaba un viento del norte_ ; it’s from an Alderaanian poem.” Ren makes a vague gesture. “I was just...reminded.”

“ _Cá bhfuil an tuaisceart_?” Hux replies, the syllabes foreign on his tongue. “‘Which way is North?’”

“A song?” Ren guesses.

“Nursery rhyme. All I remember are—” He bites the rest off. Doesn’t want to _talk_. They could, by all means, just trot along silently until the cold clears his head. Still, he can’t help himself. “Isn’t it weird,” he asks, “speaking a dead language?”

“Well,” Ren says, “it’s spooky to recite it _here_.”

“Right. Yes. Maybe.”

“Makes you wonder which language will go extinct next.”

Hux adjusts his collar. He has no reason to feel uncomfortable. Ren _told him_ he appreciated Starkiller. It should imply he _understands_ , morbid as it is—with his home-planet nothing but gas and dust. 

“With any luck, we’ll never have to fire it,” Hux says, hating how apologetic he sounds. “Unless the Resistance or other terrorist groups intervene, it should be enough to...reveal the completed project, prove we have firepower to win a war before it even began, and so negotiations—”

“Do you want to talk about work?” Ren interrupts, turns to face him. Hux avoids his gaze, ears burning. “We can talk about work.”

“We shouldn’t,” Hux says. “I’m intoxicated, I’m—off-duty, presently, I don’t have my—charts with me.”

He hates that it’s being taken away from him. Talking about work would be easy; he might never get over Ren’s recital of that fucking poem, s _oplaba un viento del norte,_ and the look in his eyes, skin luminescent-bright, like a ghost’s. He can’t help feeling they’re walking towards something dangerous, leaving behind civilisation and heading into the wilderness. Who knows what might wait them out there?

The Northern lights dance; the flares of a star he put on death row.

He feels so fucking _small_.

Ren takes his arm. “Careful,” he says.

Hux didn’t realise he was straying from the path. Ren squeezes his arm in reassurance, and it almost turns his stomach. This is not how Ren touches him, used to touch him, ought to touch him, whichever it is; this friendly pat is almost offensive, too casual, almost banal.

“We can have a working relationship,” Ren says.

“Stop it,” Hux spits, halts; needs to breathe. “We are not going to discuss Starkiller.”

“As you wish.”

“We _won’t_ ,”  Hux insits. “I’m not entirely certain what role should I have—”

“We’ll talk about that when you’re ready.”

“No one else can do it,” Hux says. No one else can do it, yet here he is: drunk and isolated on an ice planet with his commander who’s also his ex-boyfriend, and he’s stuck here, just because he can’t sort out his mess. The evening goes on forever; the snow is endless; and the Northern lights are indifferent.

“What is it?” Ren asks. Rubs his back. Hux wants to push him away, except Ren grabs his hip—without meaning to, most likely—but there’s something incredibly possessive in it.

He might have no idea where he stands, at present, which is a novel and terrifying experience; but one thing’s for sure, he belongs to Ren.

He stumbles forward, shoulder pulled up sharply. “I’m drunk,” he announces.

“Let’s go on, just a little further. You’ll sober up.”

Hux shakes his head, but reaches for Ren nevertheless. Ren offers his arm again, but Hux ends up holding his hand. It’s all right. It’s fine. At least it’s not a karking lie; at least they’re past pretending they can resist it, that whiny need for connection.

Ren puts an arm around his waist to better stabilize him, because he’s losing his footing, he’s losing his mind, it’d be the easiest thing to tip up his chin and lean in for a kiss. Ren’s pouty lips would part for him; Ren would kiss him back. But then they’d have to think about what comes next.

Hux sets his jaw and takes a step. Ren supports him the best he can.

*

 _Which way is North_ , Hux hums. _Cá bhfuil an tuaisceart._

They get deeper into the frozen pine-forest. The rhyme says to look where the moss grows, but nothing grows here. The trees look like an army of deformed snowmen, bent over the weight of icicles, waiting for orders.

“Let’s just walk to the clearing,” Ren says. He sounds terrible, the velvet of his voice torn and ragged. His breath is laboured, the white puffs of air wavering, faint.

“Maybe we should go to the hot springs,” Hux suggests. “Good for the lungs.”

“You’re not swimming in the dark—we are. Not.”

“It’s not deep. There are these shallow little pools, naturally formed, the water just comes up to your hips—I go there often.”

“In the dark?” Ren asks.

Hux scowls at him. “I’m trying to be nice,” he grits. “But fine, I’ll just let you handle your cold. I’m sure you have it _under control_.”

“I can cure it with the Force.”

“Then fucking do so.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Ren says in his preachy tone. Hux didn’t miss that; swallows bile as Kylo goes on and leads him along through the snow, almost a dance, except they aren’t facing each other. “The Force guides me; it let me be ill. It wants to tell me something through my illness. If I try to tamper with it, I might never receive the message.”

“So you’d rather _die—_ ”

“I won’t die, come on, it’s just a cold. My body will handle it. I can ease the pain, but with nothing as drastic as medicine or—”

“Listen to yourself,” Hux snaps. “This is why religion is poison.”

“Are you telling me you don’t believe in the Force?” Ren asks, amused.

“You know what? I don’t.”

“You’ve seen it work, Gr—Hux. You have witnessed—”

“Shut up,” Hux says, pushes away. Immediately misses the weight and warmth of Ren’s arm, the false sense of security it offers. It’s getting cold, but Hux would rather stumble and freeze to death than—(There’s a thought to be spared to stubbornness; how they’re equally headstrong, equally arrogant, and how that means one of them will _have to give up._ ) “I have seen a force at work, and I think the capital Forn is confusing, because it operates the same way as other _forces_ in physics, but let us still use this name, let us say it is _the_ Force; and let us suppose, just for a moment, that there is nothing preternatural about it, seeing that the effects it has on its environment are observable, measurable, and can be explained without religious doctrine—”

“You _are_ drunk.”

“Let us suppose,” Hux says, voice too loud, as he walks deeper into the forest, pushing away branches; alone, now, Ren and his sparkling light hardly keeping up. “Let us suppose that it is only a mutation, midichlorians or what have you, that there is a biological reason you have abilities that many of us lack. _You have_ abilities. It’s you. The Force itself doesn’t have a will; what we can observe is _your_ doing. What would you say, then? How many decisions have you based on the will of the Force, how many false masters have manipulated you to think—or _not_ think—shit, no wonder you keep losing control when you have something else control your entire life.”

“I have felt it,” Ren says softly. “I can reach out and touch faith. You cannot explain that away, the connection I have to the _living_ Force. It talks to me; shows me signs—”

“You interpret an experience a certain way.” Hux turns to face him, and Ren’s closer than he thought; they nearly collide. Hux puts a hand over Ren’s chest to brace himself, to lean closer and grit, “what makes you so special that the Force itself is invested in your private life? That it _cares_ if you catch a _cold_? It gives you signs, is that right? Why can’t it just come up to you and say, _I want you to keep your prick locked_ —”

“It doesn’t work—”

“You can’t say there are signs,” Hux says, “if signs are _everywhere_. We have thirty-four letters, and each mean something distinct; if a sign has a plenitude of meaning, if you cannot even say for sure what is a sign and what isn’t, because one day the clouds have meaning and the other day they don’t, that’s not a form of communication, that’s _delusion_. They told you to stay celibate because organised religion wants to control you, and what a better way to do so—”

“ _You_ are deluded,” Ren bites back. “You’ve gone mad. Listen to yourself, like a crazy hermit—”

“Don’t ever call me a _hermit_ ,” Hux hisses into his face. They’re only a breath away. There it is again, the urge to kiss; his skin prickles, his cock is semi-erect, he could just— _shut Ren up_ —they could fall back into the snow and fuck like animals, on the ground, trousers pulled down to trembling knees, and Ren would claim he can read the Force’s consent from the stars, the Northern lights, that the way the trees sigh is a sign, that what they’re doing is holy. He’d say this as he fucks Hux’s hole full with come, cock-cage abandoned nearby, because he _chose_ to take it off; oh stars, the blasted idiot would mix in _free will_ with all of this—

“I’m sorry I called you a hermit,” Ren says, pupils blown and lashes lowered. Hux is reminded he’s a mind-reader; he fists the coat where he’s clinging to Ren’s chest, staring into his eyes still. He’s never seen them like this, since their colour changed, clouded with lust and—

 _It’s not lust_ , he realises. He didn’t feel pressure on his temples, the tell-tale sign of telepathy, there was none of that low humming. He pulls a glove off, touches Ren’s face, then his forehead. The silver circlet is burning up under his touch.

“Fever,” he says. “You’re going to pass out.”

He can feel Ren’s pulse, and feels vaguely guilty for riling him up.

“I’m fine,” Ren says. “And you’re wrong; you cannot use wordly reasoning with something that is beyond this plane of existence—”

“Yes, I can, I just did,” Hux mutters. Ren’s gaze is hazy, and he’s slightly swaying in place, without Hux to hold onto. He can amend that, so he slips under Ren’s arm. He can feel him stiffen, minutely, then relax into it.

“Can you walk?” he asks, slightly worried as Ren’s weight threatens to crush him.

“Of course, I’m okay. I just don’t quite get how a learned man like yourself doesn’t know the first thing about belief: that it doesn’t _require_ hard evidence—”

“Can you teleport us back?” Hux interrupts, pained. Ren shakes his head.

“My mind is clouded by illness,” he announces.

*

The way back is torture. Hux is reminded of every reason he hates and loves Ren; dragging a rambling deadweight through the frozen landscape is no easy feat, but he’s doing it; and as his shoulders ache and his legs shake, he’s reminded why he’s putting up with it all. 

The observatory is nearer with every step, with the promises of warmth and comfort. Hux tries to come up with a plan: Ren needs a hot-and-cold bath, but the sonic will have to do. He’ll get a towel for his forehead. There’s tea, and plenty of blankets; there’s only one bed.

The thought nearly halts him, but he must press on. _Not again. Not now_. He’ll sleep on the ground.

Ren seems to have packed _reasonable_ outfits, which is a relief. He probably didn’t know how long he’d have to stay, whether Hux would want to start negotiations on the spot, how long they’d drag on. He wishes he was the man Ren thinks him to be: if he put his responsibility first, and not his emotions. He wishes they were as easy to separate as they used to be.

Just a few feet now; just around the corner. He hisses as he dislocates himself from Ren, who looks concerned, his stupid face pale and frantic.

“I fell down the stairs,” Hux says. “I have bruises all over me. Will you freak out and run away?”

“Fuck you,” Ren mumbles.

“That’s what I thought.” With that, Hux turns to punch in the security codes. Ren slumps against his back, pressing him into the wall, his breath hot and wet.

“I don’t feel very well,” he confesses.

“No shit,” Hux grits, escapes his tempting heat by sliding through the opening door. Ren nearly falls over the threshold, then pulls up as if nothing has happened. Sets out with his usual heavy gait, only to stumble and wince. Hux turns towards the ladder.

“This will be fun,” he mumbles.

“I suppose I could do a Force-jump,” Ren retorts, “but alas, there’s no Force to pull me up.”

“Stop strawmanning me if you don’t want to sleep here,” Hux hisses, indicates the cold control room with a sweeping gesture. Ren pulls his greatcoat tighter around himself.

“I don’t need to sleep,” he says, “once I was meditating in a cave for a week straight, with no food, in the summer heat, didn’t sleep a blink—the Force was sustaining me; how do you explain—”

“Superpowers!”  Hux yells.

“I don’t have superpowers!” Ren screams, but his voice breaks. Hux scoffs, but can’t help feeling _pity_ ; a mighty warrior brought so low by fever and common cold. Ren tries to go on with his argument, but it’s lost to a racking cough.

Hux decides to wait the fit out, watches Ren doubling over and hitting his chest—harder than necessary, so hard Ren grits his teeth, but keeps punching and punching.

“Once you’re done being angry with your lungs,” Hux says, an eyebrow strategically arched, “maybe consider jumping.” He steps to the ladder and pats it with a gloved hand. “I’m not dragging your arse up there.”

Ren squints, yellow eyes wet with tears. He bumps Hux with a shoulder as he makes his way past him, but there’s no force to it, just the warning of a wolf who lost his teeth. He looks up at the hatch, jaw clenched, and jumps.

There’s a very satisfying _crash_ from upstairs. 

Hux knocks at the ladder. “All right there?”

“Never better,” Ren grits in answer.

Hux smiles to himself, climbs the ladder with graceful ease, planning his grand entry with a biting remark at the ready—but finds Ren crumpled on the floor, heaving in pain.

“Idiot,” he says gently, pulls him to his feet. Ren doesn’t say anything as Hux drags him to the cot, just falls over it with a heavy _oompf_. Hux checks his forehead; it’s hotter than in the forest. “I’m grabbing the medkit,” Hux announces. “Undress.”

He doesn’t check if Ren obliges; heads straight to the ‘fresher, grabs the kit and takes a minute to compose himself. His reflection shows a man wild with worry, which is ridiculous; he’s not concerned in the slightest. This is just a fever. He’s been a sickly kid, he knows how awful it feels, but he also knows one just has to push through it. There’s no use in coddling. He’ll just run a quick medscan, and leave Ren to rest. 

Ren managed to shrug off the greatcoat and take off the crown; both are abandoned on the ground, and he seems to be fast asleep in jodhpurs and a tunic, the snow melting off his boots.

“Oi!” Hux calls. The boots need to come off; the boots and the rest—such blatant disrespect of the uniform cannot be tolerated, and Ren’s injuries must be checked. It’d be preferable if he’d be awake for it—Hux tries to shake him, but to no avail. “It’s alright,” Hux tells himself as he kneels down by the bed. “I can be a professional.”

The boots are the easy part. It’s easy, because he’s not thinking about Jakku and Ren yanking off his jackboots with the Force. The tunic is next: he doesn’t have to look at what he’s doing, just keep his eyes on Ren’s face, but it’s a mistake.

He never saw Ren sleep.

He keeps thinking about it, _I never saw you sleep, you’ve always been watching over me_ as the hooks come undone. Ren’s mouth is slightly open, and Hux is left to wonder if he always sleeps like that, or if it’s just because of his cold; if he’d lie on his side always, knees pulled up to his chest. Hux remembers what he told him about Skywalker; it’s no wonder his posture is defensive—Hux also sleeps curled up like a scared kid. They’d fit together.

He cannot let his mind go there.

He peels off the tunic, rather roughly, but Ren just groans at it. Despite the muscles of his revealed torso, his brutal frame, that savage strength Hux found instantly attractive, he looks vulnerable. Hux misses being in love with a masked figure, a beastly man, and he misses that first glance at Kylo Ren’s face, wind-chafed, the tan of his former life fading. He’s too pale now; he lives in the darkness of space. It’s no place for him.

His side is bruised. Hux resists to poke at it. He just has to take off the jodphurs, and leave him be. Flee.

Ren’s legs part as he rolls him to his back. Hux cannot help but feel like a creep as he unfastens Ren’s trousers, ever-so-careful not to touch skin, just get it over with. Damn Ren and his long legs; he has no right to look like a dashing prince collapsed on a divan, waiting for true love’s kiss to invigorate him. It was just a fancy, a pathetic _office romance_ , and Ren should just find a consort to rule by his side, someone befitting his position, not a cur—

Hux’s breath catches as the briefs are revealed. They’re faded; they’re from the set of underwear he sent to Ren, red and black, and it seems lightyears ago that Ren put them on for a holocall, that he laughed and bounced and—

The outline of the cock cage is evident.

Hux sits back on his heels, staring at it as he lets go of the jodphurs.

He knew it was there. Seeing it is different. All it represents. Supreme Leader Ren.  Separation. A ridiculous offer.

He presses his lips in a thin line. Reaches out, grabs at Ren’s trousers, yanks them off and turns away. Gathers his shit to hang it up properly. He can’t think. His heart is pounding so hard he’s afraid he might die.

The farther he walks, the stronger is the pull that calls him back to Ren. Attraction, in the scientific sense, an insistent, irresistible _tug_ , the urge to wake him up and—

He must keep his distance.

The ocean roars in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warnings:** Ren expresses discomfort about Hux drinking, he keeps doing it | vague reference to Hux’s canonically abusive childhood | mention of Hux doing a blood-oath when he was six, which included a cut on the wrist 
> 
> Fandom blessed us with bitter exes Kylux dynamics, but how about bittersweet exes still madly in love? Tune in next Friday to see how Ren handles having a) a cold b) 1000 emotions c) Hux's mere proximity
> 
> Many thanks to my co-author ktula and Deadsy for proofreading the chapter!
> 
> There's a moodboard with a very cute kitten on it for your [retweeting](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1126849873704357888), [reblogging](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/184782021046/reach-out-and-touch-faith-chapter-810-itd-be) and [re...pillowing](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/647208) consideration, and a behind-the-scenes look on [dreamwidth](https://forautumn.dreamwidth.org/2421.html)


	9. Stripped Bare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t remember getting undressed. Hux must have done it. He wishes he remembered Hux doing it. Wishes he remembered Hux’s hands on his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We couldn't find anything potentially triggering in this chapter--if you did, please let us know!

He is burning up. His body is shaking, his mind fogged, his connection to the Force scrambled. Kylo holds his hand out, palm up, concentrates—nothing happens. No light. No fire. No lightning. He is overly conscious of his tongue in his mouth. The size of it. The texture. He aches for water, but when he swallows, it’s like shards of kyber scoring lines down the inside of his throat.

He’s lying in bed, somehow. Naked except for his boxers, the cage a too-hot weight between his legs. The sheets are soaked with sweat. _He_ is soaked with sweat—on the back of his neck, down his chest, under his arms, stubble prickling uncomfortably. He can feel a droplet running down into his bellybutton. Every time he shifts, his balls slide against the sweat-damp interior of the metal cage.

He doesn’t remember getting undressed. Hux must have done it. He wishes he remembered Hux doing it. Wishes he remembered Hux’s hands on his body.

It hurts to breathe. Kylo presses his palm against his sternum, listens to his breath rattling in his lungs. This is the end of it, this is what it’s all come to. He wasn’t enough when he came to the First Order, covered in blood, and nameless. He wasn’t enough the first time he came to the Finalizer. He wasn’t enough when he collapsed in the throne room after the second massacre. He isn’t enough now, and he’ll die this way.

He closes his eyes. Dreams about Hux.

About how Hux’s skin used to feel under Kylo’s fingertips, dry and delicate. (He won’t ever have that again.) Hux’s eyes, bright and clear, pupils dilating, mouth parting, tongue laving against his full lower lip—

Kylo takes a breath and coughs so hard he gags, struggles for breath. When he’s finished, his stomach muscles ache, his throat burns, and there are blurry spots dancing in front of his eyes. There’s a whisper of cool air across his face and he opens his eyes—

He’s alone.

There is a glass of water on a small shelf next to the bed, two pills in blister packs sitting next to it.

Hux isn’t here.

Kylo reaches for the Force—and then stops. If the Force is there, he won’t be able to stop himself from searching for Hux. He’ll break if Hux isn’t here.

He reaches for the water glass with his hand, ignores the pills.

Drinks.

Closes his eyes.

*

Kylo is drowning in it—the weight of the fever, the heaviness of his choices, the overarching pressure of the Force and Destiny and Signs bearing down on him, flattening him to the ground. It hurts to breathe, it hurts to live, his entire body aches and he can feel his heartbeat throbbing through his entire body, his muscles twitching—

(He wants a sign, but _you can’t say there are signs if there are signs everywhere_ , and he wants to know that he’s made the right choice, but _you interpret experiences in certain ways_ , and he doesn’t know if he should have come earlier or come later or _why did you come_ stayed on the Supremacy and never come at all.)

There is ice on his forehead. Ice, and a welcome pressure that he wants to push up into, except that he hurts too much to move.

“Shh,” a voice says. “You’re burning up.”

“Contagious,” Kylo mutters. “Don’t…”

Hux tsks derisively. “We vaccinate for this.”

“...?”

“We vaccinate for this,” Hux repeats. “Incidentally, you’re behind on your shots.”

“I…”

“...according to the med scanner.”

The coolness on Kylo’s forehead shifts. Doubles. It’s Hux’s hands, Hux’s cold hands framing Kylo’s face, Hux is touching him, Hux is—Hux is _comforting_ him.

Kylo starts to open his eyes—and Hux moves his thumbs, smoothes both eyelids back down, his thumbs resting on Kylo’s eye sockets, encouraging Kylo’s eyes to stay shut.

“I’m your emergency contact,” Hux says. “I thought you would have...fixed that.”

“Why,” Kylo croaks.

Hux doesn’t answer, just—breathes. His breath is quicker than it ought to be, ragged at the edges, but his cold hands are steady on Kylo’s face, holding him fast.

Kylo lets himself fade into the illness. It’s okay, Hux is—

*

—warm next to his chest, and Kylo reaches out to touch his skin, pull Hux back against his chest—and he touches fur.

Kylo opens his eyes. “Millicent,” Kylo says. His voice is low, cracks in awkward places.

She raises her head from where she’s curled up on the edge of the bed, makes an inquisitive noise at him.

“Hey,” Kylo says. “Does he—is he—”

“Millie?” Hux calls. His voice echoes from the hatch below.

Millie _mrowrs_ , jumps off the bed and trots over to the ladder.

“There you are,” Hux says. “Come here.”

Kylo tips his head toward the hatch and sees Hux’s hands as they reach up, pick up Millicent, and then disappear into the bowels of the base again.

Kylo sighs, puts his head back on the pillow. His head is pounding and his chest feels heavy.

He feels like shit.

He feels absolutely like shit.

“Hux?” he asks, softly. _Will you come sit with me? Have you slept? Where are you sleeping?_

There’s a slight noise from below, and then Hux peers up from the hatch again, his cheeks flushed. He’s holding Millicent against his shoulder. The bruise on his arm from the ladder is lurid, but starting to fade. “Did you need anything?”

Kylo shifts in bed, and the cage shifts too, pulling his inert genitals away from his body. _I need everything. I need you._

He bites his tongue and shakes his head.

Hux huffs out a breath, and disappears back down the hatch again.

*

He still doesn’t know where Hux is sleeping.

It’s not in bed with Kylo, because he’s thrashing around too much, he knows he’s thrashing around too much, he knows, he doesn’t want to share a bed with himself either, they would have to lie front to back, their limbs entangled, their bodies touching, Hux’s ice against Kylo’s heat, and Hux shouldn’t want—

—it’s just that Kylo doesn’t think there’s anywhere else to sleep.

There’s only one bed, and Kylo has had exclusive use of it since he—nearly passed out in the forest. He’s been sleeping on Hux’s pillow, sweating in Hux’s sheets. It’s Hux’s blanket that’s on the floor, and it’s Hux’s blanket that Kylo shakily pulls back up onto the bed with him now.

(His hands are still so unsteady.)

Kylo closes his eyes, sees Hux’s face—opens his eyes again, stares at the blanket. Puts his hands on it, reaches out with the Force, folds the blanket with a gesture. Carefully sits up, closes his eyes, breathes through his nose until the room stops spinning. Then he picks up the pillow, brushes his hands across it, sets it down atop the blanket. It’s not the same as having it cleaned, but he doesn’t know where the laundry facilities are, and he can’t sense any droids.

Kylo braces himself on the wall, pulls himself to his feet. The floor feels uneven under his feet, but Hux would never tolerate that, so it must be Kylo’s balance, shot all to hell from the fever and the illness and the trial that the Force is putting him through. Kylo knocks at the side of his head with the heel of his hand, pops his jaw. His ears clear, but the floor still feels wrong.

He gestures with his hand, floats the pillow and the blanket up off the bed. Takes a step forward, tugging them forward—and then slaps his hand hard against the wall when his legs threaten out to go out from underneath him.

“Mrrrr,” Millie says.

Kylo looks over. She’s sitting there, licking at one of her tiny paws, watching him.

“I know how to walk,” Kylo says.

She passes her paw over her ear, brings it back to her mouth, little pink tongue carefully cleaning the pads of it.

Kylo takes another step, braces himself with the Force—and then gives up, sets the blanket and pillow down on the floor, and takes two steps to the bed, where he collapses heavily, lies there on the mattress shaking, waiting for his heartbeat to calm and his breathing to steady.

There’s a slight pressure on the mattress as Millie jumps up, settles down at the end of the bed. Her fur tickles uncomfortably against the soles of his bare feet, but every time Kylo moves his feet away, Millie just settles back next to him again.

Eventually, Kylo gives up, lies sprawled on the mattress with Hux’s cat curled up on his feet, and one of his arms dangling off the edge of the bed. He squints at the pillow and blanket sitting on the floor—and then flicks his fingers weakly, scoots them both a few inches across the floor with the Force.

After a few minutes, he does it again.

*

It’s hard to sleep without a pillow, without Nebulosa’s steady huffed breaths. Kylo sighs, turns his face toward the mattress. His chest still hurts, his head aches, and the fever is—well, it’s present, humming away in the back of his mind, scrambling his connection with the Force, and then pulling back only to descend and turn everything into static again.

He’s comforted by the sound of Hux’s footsteps in the room below, by listening to Hux moving around in the space, shifting boxes, chatting quietly with Millicent. Hux keeps a steady schedule, and it has absolutely nothing to do with Kylo. The power is turned off in most of the lower level, but Hux still finds something to do there every day, and today is no exception.

There he is now, orange hair coming up from the hatch as Hux climbs up into the room, sits on the edge of the hatch with his feet dangling into the hole below. He’s still wearing his safety harness, strapped tight on his chest and around his thighs, and his hair is dishevelled. There’s a light hung around his neck, shining down at his chest, at his crotch where the fabric of his black uniform pants is gathered by the straps of his safety harness.

“Coming to bed?” Kylo rasps.

Hux looks over at him, unsurprised. His eyes trace over the length of Kylo’s body, linger on Kylo’s bare feet, sticking out of the sheet at the end of the bed.

“You can’t be comfortable like that,” he says.

“Helps my headache,” Kylo mutters. He rolls onto his back so he doesn’t have to look at Hux’s face, at the openness there, the agony of knowing that Hux still wants him, still loves him, still— “I don’t even know where you sleep.” He turns his head just enough to be able to see Hux out of the corner of his eye, to be able to watch Hux’s narrow fingers working at the straps of his harness.

Hux’s every move is elegance and grace. He shrugs the harness off his shoulders, sits there with his legs swinging, the straps pooled at his hips. Then, without another word, he braces himself on the edge of the hatch, and then drops back down to the floor below.

*

Hux’s hand is on his face again. Kylo doesn’t know what time it is—but the room is dark, and he can’t hear Millicent moving around, and Hux’s cold hand is splayed right across Kylo’s face, his fingertips tracing over Kylo’s forehead. They stutter for a moment, hovering in the air just above Kylo’s face for a moment before they touch, again, brush across Kylo’s forehead, his eyebrows, before settling just below his right eye.

The skin is numb there. Kylo’s face still moves—he knows this from countless hours sitting in his room alone, staring at his new face in the mirror, watching the way the skin pulls and twists—but he can’t feel anything over the scar tissue, and so he lies there, pretending to be asleep, and feels Hux’s fingertips skate in and out of his consciousness as Hux’s fingers trace over the scar tissue, and then onto his face, and then back to the scar tissue again.

Kylo wants to say something, but the words aren’t there. Not yet. He can feel them building back behind his teeth, but they aren’t fully formed yet. It’s an—it’s an apology, because he owes Hux that. Because he doesn’t need his connection to the Force to know that Hux is hurt, that Hux is hurting, that Kylo’s own actions have irreparably damaged whatever he and Hux could have had. He doesn’t need the Force to be able to read the expressions on Hux’s face. He doesn’t need—

—he needs—

Above him, Hux sighs. Shifts on the edge of the bed. His fingertips are resting just at the edge of Kylo’s lips. If Kylo turns his head, he could nip at Hux’s fingertips. Maybe they could go back to the way they used to be. Maybe that would be okay. Maybe they could pick up where they left off, maybe they could—

“Supreme Leader,” Hux says, a little bitterly. “Supreme Leader Ren.”

Kylo opens his mouth—and Hux pulls his hand away, stands up, and disappears into the darkness.

*

He’s hungry, for the first time in days. Kylo pushes himself upright, sets his bare feet on the floor. Waits, listens to his breathing, to his heart, to his blood rushing in his veins.

When he stands, the floor doesn’t tilt. His balance is unsteady, yes, but he places his hand on the wall, and that’s enough to keep him stable, to keep him safe. He can feel the Force tingling at the edges of his consciousness. When he swallows, his throat is dry, and he doesn’t trust his voice. He rubs his eyes, looks at the place where he had set the pillow and blanket.

They’re still there. Still folded. Untouched, as far as he can tell. Kylo rubs at his sternum, braces himself on the wall, and starts making his way down the ladder to the main floor. Hux should have the bed, he decides, the rungs of the ladder cold under his bare feet. He’ll go downstairs, tell Hux that he should have the bed. Kylo should teleport back to the Supremacy, put his robe back on, sit on his throne, let Hux—let Hux be. Let him do what he wants on Starkiller, let him run the project remotely, let him—

—Kylo’s foot slips, and he catches himself on the ladder, half with the Force and half with his arm, the jolt of pain sharp and sudden.

( _Will you freak out and run away?_ )

Kylo swallows, puts his foot back on the rung of the ladder. Breathes for a few moments, and then finishes his descent. He’s out of breath when he reaches the bottom, puts on a brave face and pulls himself up to his full height anyway. “Hux?”

There’s no response. The lower level is dim, the only light visible the one over the exterior door. There’s no discernable bed down here, no place he can see that Hux would be sleeping.

Kylo catches his breath, stifles a cough into his arm. His stomach rumbles. Hux must be in the basement, but also...if Hux wanted to be found, he would be somewhere that Ren could see him, and he’s not...so he doesn’t.

Kylo puts his hand back on the ladder, and climbs back up to the living quarters.

*

There’s no food.

Kylo is shaking now, his teeth chattering and his fingers twitching. He wants nothing more than to go curl up in bed, but he’s still starving, and there’s just—there’s just no food. The conservator is empty, and he stares into it, trying to make sense out of—slurry. Protein slurry, in little cups, each of them portioned out into a single serving, and one of them subdivided even further, with Millie’s name printed on the container, Aurebesh characters precise and neat.

“There you are,” Hux says from the doorway. His voice is low, roughened by sleep. “I thought you were leaving.”

“No,” Kylo says. “I don’t, I wouldn’t—” He swallows. “Not without saying anything.” He shuts his eyes a moment, and then gambles. “Not unless you ask.”

He glances over at Hux.

Hux is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, lit headlamp dangling around his neck. He’s wearing a tank top and briefs, and his feet are bare. He’s not wearing his dogtags. The shadows of his nipples are visible through his top.

The weight of everything that’s happened between them is enough to crush Kylo.

The silence is broken by Kylo’s stomach rumbling. Kylo flinches, puts his hand on his stomach—and then stumbles, the floor tilting rapidly underneath him for a moment before he yanks on the Force to right himself, slams his hand against the conservator to try and catch his balance.

“Here,” Hux says. He’s standing right beside Kylo, hauling Kylo’s arm around his shoulder, and bracing Kylo’s body against his own. “Lean on me, would you—kriff, you’re a thousand pounds, here just—yes.”

“Sorry,” Kylo mutters. “I just—”

“Have you been taking the medication I’ve been leaving for you?”

“The Force, it—”

“No,” Hux says tightly. “If you haven’t magicked it away yet, you won’t. Are you ethically opposed to taking medication?”

“...no.”

Hux sighs heavily. “Sit down. Drink a protein pack. I’ll bring you medication, and you’re going to take it. And then you’re going back to bed.”

Kylo takes a deep breath, coughs into his arm. Looks up, and finds that Hux is watching him, intently, his forehead furrowed and his mouth compressed into a tight line.

He looks...worried.

“I consent,” Kylo says, finally. “Hux, I…I should have taken the medication earlier.”

Hux’s face softens, marginally. “Sit,” Hux says. He reaches into the conservator, plucks out one of the containers, and shuts the door. Unscrews the lid, and shoves the cold container into Kylo’s hand. “Drink.”

Kylo nods, sits down on the floor.

The protein slurry tastes like chalk on his tongue, but the coolness is welcome on his throat.

He looks up when Hux re-enters, blinks when Hux deposits the blister packs onto Kylo’s outstretched palm.

Kylo looks down at them, squints.

“Have you literally never…”

Kylo shakes his head. “The Force—”

“Shove it,” Hux says. He takes the blister packs, deftly pops out the pills, and hands them back to Kylo. His hand lingers on Kylo’s just a little longer than it needs to.

Kylo stares down at their hands, touching. At the glossy pills, one teal and one pale orange, on his palm.

“Do you need to be taught how to swallow?” Hux says, voice low.

Kylo looks up at him—and Hux’s eyes are dilated, the colour high on his face. It’s—it’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything Kylo doesn’t deserve, and he ducks his head so that  he doesn’t have to look anymore, puts the pills in his mouth and moves them to the back of his throat. Hesitates.

Swallows.

Expects to feel immediately different. Expects to feel his connection to the Force diminish instantly, but he reaches for it, and it’s—there, the same fuzzy connection he’s had the entire time that he’s run this fever, the connection that allowed him to Force-jump into the upper floor but did not permit him to stop himself from crashing into the wall, bruising his side and injuring his pride.

He wants Hux to see him at his most powerful—but instead, Hux gets this. Kylo, laid low by an illness that the Force did not deem him special enough to exempt him from. Kylo, welcomed into a prison of Hux’s own making, but a prison that Kylo sent him to—and after all of this, the Force is still here, and so is Hux.

Neither of them have deserted him, even if neither of them are acting in the way that he wants.

“I’m going back to bed,” Hux says abruptly—and he stands and is gone, before Kylo has even put the words together to offer Hux his own bedroom back.

Kylo’s palm, where Hux had touched him, feels warm, and even though he’s not sure if the medication has kicked in, Kylo thinks he feels slightly better.

*

The datapad is in his hand with a thought. (Admittedly, the datapad wasn’t that far away.) Kylo carefully writes his passcode to unlock it, waits a moment while it connects back to the Supremacy.

(It takes a moment, and that’s good—it means they’ve moved away from Starkiller Base, just like Kylo requested them to, because he knows how it would look if Hux looked up in the sky, and saw the Supremacy in atmo, hovering over the observatory like a threat.)

Kylo checks his messages. Answers the ones that he needs to, defers the ones that he doesn’t. Sends a brief message to Phasma to check in, but provides no further information, because she doesn’t care, and she’ll lose respect for him if he does.

His heart is still beating hard in his chest. His chest aches, skin bruise-tender. Hux isn’t here, and if Hux isn’t here, Hux has left him, and if Hux has left him, he might as well just teleport himself into space, wait there for the void to suck the oxygen from his lungs, for the Force to stop sustaining him, for—

“Mrowr?”

Kylo looks over to the door. Millicent is standing there, small and orange and vulnerable-looking.

Kylo exhales. “Glad you’re still here,” Kylo says. “He wouldn’t leave you.”

Millicent trots into the room, jumps up on the bed, and curls up in the corner. Kylo reaches out tentatively with his foot, nudges his toe against her little body.

“Do you sleep with him, normally?” Kylo asks. “Does he make space for you in his bed, hold out the covers for you so that you can crawl underneath?”

Millie makes a discontented sound, hops up onto Kylo’s legs and walks up his body to his shoulder before jumping back down to the bed and curling up against his chest.

“You probably don’t need the covers,” he says, softly. “Look at you, all this fur. I have a pet, too. Back at home. She’s a little bigger than you are, though. No fur on her, so she does get cold—I have a place for her beside my bed, blankets that she can burrow under. She snuffles at my fingers to check that I’m still there, breathes into my face in the morning when she wants me to wake up. Here, do you want to meet her?”

He moves the stylus on the datapad, brings up the security feeds from the Supremacy. Focuses in on his own rooms, nudging the camera this way and that—

“There,” he breathes. “Do you see her, Millie? She’s sleeping right now—oh, wait, she’s waking up. Baby...how are you?”

The hologram of his dog snuffles, peers up in the direction of his voice.

“Nebulosa,” Kylo breathes. “Darling, dear. How are you doing?”

Her tongue lolls out of her mouth, head tilting curiously.

“I know,” Kylo says, laying his head down and staring at the hologram. “I’m sick, I just…” He looks over at the hatch, but it’s empty. “...I just wanted to know how you were doing,” he says. “Did you, have you—this is Millicent, she’s Hux’s.”

Millicent looks at the hologram. Nebulosa looks back at her.

“Be nice to each other,” Kylo says softly. “It’s important that you get along, it’s important—”

Millie hisses, ears flattening against her head.

“Hey,” Kylo warns.

Across the galaxy, Nebulosa lets out a short _boof_ , shifting on her bed and briefly baring her teeth to the camera.

Millie stands up, back arched and tail at high alert.

“Hey,” Kylo says. “Hey, hey. Millie, just—”

Millie hisses again, louder than before, takes a swat at the hologram, which fizzles for a moment before snapping back into place. Nebulosa is standing now, shoulders tight and body tense, ready to attack.

“Come away from there, Millie,” Hux says.

All three of them turn to the hatch, where Hux is standing. He’s already stripped down to his black jodhpurs and his tank top, dogtags visible on his chest. His hair is loose and messy, half of it falling down over his face, and he’s never looked so beautiful. It catches Kylo’s breath in his lungs, slows his heart.

Hux snaps his fingers, and Millie jumps off the bed, trots over to him, lets herself be picked up.

“There you are,” Hux says softly. “Safe and sound, right where you belong.” He looks up at Kylo.

Kylo looks away.

(Nebulosa has settled back down into her bed, eyes drifting closed. She’s comfortable, on the Supremacy. She doesn’t need Kylo, even though Kylo misses her desperately.)

“How are you—how are you feeling?” Hux asks.

“Fine,” Kylo says, closing the holocall, and tucking his datapad underneath the bed. “Perfect. Never better.”

“Ah,” Hux says. “I guess you don’t…”

Kylo lies back on the bed. Tries not to think about Hux’s body next to his in the command tent on Jakku, about Hux’s legs wrapped around his waist, against—

(Hux is near-silent when he descends the ladder, but Kylo can hear him go anyway.)

*

Kylo wakes up because he can smell something. Looks over at the shelf next to the bed, and there’s—soup, there. Fresh soup, still steaming, and a spoon sitting next to it, and actual—actual vegetables, floating in the broth.

Kylo sits upright slowly, reaches for the spoon and takes a tentative mouthful of the soup.

He groans inadvertently. The food is just so goddamn—

“Are you—”

Kylo looks over.

Hux’s head is peeking out of the hatch, his face pale and—

“This soup is amazing,” Kylo says hoarsely. “It’s—”

“...I didn’t make it,” Hux mutters. His eyes dart over to Kylo, and then away. He bites his lower lip, face flushing—and then descends back to the main level again before Kylo can say anything else.

*

He wakes in the middle of the night. Hux’s cold hand is on his face, and Kylo turns into it without a thought, brings his hand up and captures Hux’s wrist before he realizes what he’s done, and awkwardly lets go, fingertips still pressed lightly against Hux’s skin.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“...how do you feel?” Hux asks clinically.

(Kylo can hear his heartbeat, fast and quick, at odds with the flat look on Hux’s face.)

“Worse,” Kylo says. He swallows. “Could you just…”

“I brought you more pills,” Hux says. “Medication and painkillers. Do you want both, or just the medication?”

_I want your hand on my face_ , Kylo thinks. _I want your body in my bed. I wish I’d never left you. I wish I’d never…_ “Just the medication, please,” he croaks.

Hux reaches down and gently tugs at Kylo’s hand, tugging it away from where Kylo’s fingers are touching Hux’s narrow wrist. Presses two pills into Kylo’s hand, closes his fingers over them.

Stands up, and walks over to the hatch.

“How long?” Kylo croaks.

_How long are you leaving me for? When will you be back?_

_Is there space in your private life for me, after everything?_

“They’ll take effect in about fifteen minutes,” Hux says. “It’s a long-lasting dose—you’ll be okay until morning.”

Kylo watches Hux descend through the hatch, orange hair slightly backlit from the room below. Then he dry swallows the pills, and immediately chokes on them. Sits up, takes a swig of water from the glass on the shelf, coughs into his arm.

Nothing but silence from below. Kylo counts his breaths—one, two, three, four, five—until he hears Hux moving around again, and then closes his eyes, and goes back to sleep.

*

The sonic doesn’t have a water function. Kylo stands under the vibrations, eyes closed. Wonders if Hux had used the shower back on Dorsoduro. It was meant for more than one person, and had a bench for fucking besides, and shower jets that were meant to imitate rain, and it just—hadn’t worked out how Kylo had expected it would.

None of it had. It had been ruined then—and it is ruined now.

Kylo gets dressed slowly, cautious of his aching head. His eyes burn, his chest hurts. There are bruises speckled across his sternum, sensitive places he can press his fingertips to when he needs to ground himself. He pulls his hair back into a bun to keep it out of his face.

The metal of the ladder is cold under his feet.

“Millie,” he calls out. “Are you down here, sweetheart?”

She isn’t in the lower level either, and neither is Hux.

Kylo carefully paces the rest of the observatory, checks in all the rooms, even the ones that Hux has kept closed up. He hesitates at one of the supply rooms in the basement—the door is locked, and the lock looks new. He places his palm on it, reaches out with the Force—

—and then stops, takes his hand away, and keeps walking.

He doesn’t manage to find Hux, or any of Hux’s belongings. There are bits and pieces, here and there—a mug, upside down in the sink of the kitchenette. Hux’s grand marshal uniform, hung on a hanger that’s hooked onto a pipe in the lower level. The partially drunk bottle of whiskey, tucked into a corner of the bedroom. (The taste of it is imprinted onto the back of Kylo’s throat like a bad memory.) But none of those things feel like Hux. Nothing, here, feels like Hux is home.

Kylo is alone in the observatory.

He has no idea whether Hux has gone on a supply run, or left the planet, or simply moved onto another location, like a ghost packing its bags and going to haunt someone else.

(He used to fantasize that he would come back as a Force ghost after he had died. Protect Hux for the rest of Hux’s life, and dissolve into nothingness after Hux was gone. But staring at the observatory, at the lack of personal effects that Hux has left behind, at the spaces here—he’s wondering if Hux would have wanted that kind of connection at all.)

*

“Kriff,” Hux says in a hushed whisper. “No, shh, Millie, hold on—”

A light, blossoming in front of him. Kylo winces, open his eyes, and Hux inhales sharply and draws back.

“Sorry,” he says, pointing his light down to the floor, where it illuminates his bare feet, and Millicent twining around his ankles. “Thought you’d be in bed. Was coming up to, er. To check on you.”

“The bed’s yours,” Kylo says blearily. “And I’m fine.”

“You’re curled up in the corner,” Hux says sharply.

“I used to sleep sitting up a lot,” Kylo says. “When I...when I joined. This is—this is fine.” He blinks, rubs at his eyes. Looks over at Hux.

Hux’s arms are crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a tank top and briefs, and his hair is damp. Kylo can just barely see the peaks of his nipples through his tank top—and he immediately pulls his knees into his chest, looks down at the floor.

“I washed the sheets,” Kylo offers, after a moment. The washing unit hadn’t been hard to find, but it had taken him longer than it should have to figure out how it worked. He’s not about to admit that to Hux, though.

“That wasn’t necessary.”

“...I’m sorry,” Kylo says. “I...should have asked.” He swallows, waits. The distant crash of the ocean is just barely audible, but steady, like a phantom heartbeat.

Hux shrugs. “I didn’t give you a way to contact me. There was no way you _could_ have asked.” He looks over at the bed, hesitates. “Should we…”

“I got your messages,” Kylo blurts. “From last year. Not, uh. Not at the time. I kind of got—everything at once, when they issued me a new datapad, and it synced with the network. The messages you’d sent from the hotel. And the...message you sent me when you went back to the Finalizer.” He’d deleted that one, in a fit of rage. Smashed up the datapad, and most of his suite, and then just re-downloaded the message from the network the moment he got his new one hooked up anyway. Read the message over and over again, had his datapad read it to him when he couldn’t see the message anymore, let the words echo through his brain, over and over again—

“Ah,” Hux says. “The PFO memo.”

Kylo looks up at him, confused. “I don’t, uh. I don’t…”

“Please fuck off,” Hux elaborates dryly. He runs his fingers back through his damp hair. “It’s an administrative term.”

“Ah,” Kylo says. He wants to ask—if Hux still means it. If they still have—

“I’m going out again tomorrow,” Hux says abruptly. “Supply run.”

“...alright,” Kylo says. He’s not entirely certain he’s up to a supply run—but if Hux is asking him, he’ll go. Even sick, he’ll be able to carry more than Hux can, and if he collapses, maybe Hux will sling Kylo’s arm around his shoulder, and haul him back to the base. Kylo hasn’t forgotten that—the details are gone, disintegrated into fractals, but the sensations remain, wrapped in a fever haze, and imprinted on his soul. His arm around Hux’s shoulders, and Hux’s hand in the center of Kylo’s chest, right over his heart.

“I may not return until after dark. I didn’t want you to worry.” Hux fiddles with his headlamp, points the light back toward the hatch. “I need to feed Millie,” he says. “Go back to sleep.”

“You don’t need me?” Kylo asks, stupidly.

Hux sighs. “Kylo,” he says softly.

“...I know,” Kylo says, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders, and looking away. “I’m sick.”

Hux’s mouth tightens, and he blinks, rapidly. His hand goes to the headlamp dangling around his neck—and then the light goes dark, and there’s nothing for Kylo to see.

He listens to Hux descend the ladder. Waits—but Hux doesn’t come back up.

*

Hux finishes the protein slurry he was drinking, looks curiously at Kylo. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah,” Kylo rasps. “Came to see you off.” He leans back against the conservator, pulls the sheet tighter around his shoulders. He’s sweating already, but shaking at the same time. Hux, by contrast, looks prim and neat and organized, standing there in his tank top and his jodhpurs.

“You didn’t need to wake up for this,” Hux says, a little softer.

“I did, though,” Kylo says, voice rasping out of a throat that’s more raw than it has any right to be. “I took the medication you left for me—thank you.” He opens the conservator, sees that there are containers of soup in there now, two of them neatly labelled with Kylo’s own name. _Oh._ When he closes the conservator door and looks over at Hux, Hux’s cheeks have pinked slightly.

“Still, though,” Hux says, tugging at his sleeve and then fixing his collar. “You should have stayed in bed.”

“I’m feeling much better,” Kylo says.

“Well, I’m still not inviting you along,” Hux says. “I don’t want to slow your recovery.” He pulls on his gloves, hesitates. “You’ll tell Millie I’ll be back later?”

“Yes,” Kylo says. “Of course.”

Hux nods, and then—waits. Shifts from foot to foot. “I should go,” he says. “I’m going.” He brushes past Kylo without touching him, footsteps silent on the ladder.

“Wait,” Kylo says, skidding across the floor and then dropping down the hatch without thinking about it. The Force is there to catch him—but not quite as quickly as it usually does, and his knees twinge as he lands.

Hux is putting on his jacket—and he doesn’t turn around.

“I don’t want you to go,” Kylo says—and then immediately regrets it when Hux looks over at him sharply. “I mean,” Kylo says, floundering. “I know you have to, I just—I’ll—” He rubs at his jaw before remembering himself and putting his hand back by his side.

“It healed well,” Hux says softly. “Your face. What, er. What caused it?”

Kylo grimaces, adjusts the blanket he’s still holding around his shoulders like the cape he’s long-since abandoned. “I took a blade to the face from one of the Praetorians.” He hooks his finger in the side of his mouth, tugs his cheek out to expose his teeth. Lets go. “They had to reconstruct some of my jaw on this side,” he says. “Still a chip in the bone, I think.” He hesitates, forges ahead. “It was...a calculated risk. I took the strike to my face in order to get close enough to deliver a killing blow. There was no way around it.”

“Mmm,” Hux says. “And your eyes, I suppose there was no way around those either?”

Kylo’s chest clenches. The lie is right there, on the tip of his tongue—and Hux doesn’t have the Force, Hux doesn’t understand the Force, Hux doesn’t even believe in it, not truly, and it’s the easiest lie that Kylo could tell. It’s a lie that would allow Hux to still respect him. It’s a lie that will tear them apart again. “I...let that happen,” he says, the truth stinging his eyes. “I could feel them going, when there was—when the Force lightning—when he was hit by—” He swallows. “When I electrocuted Snoke,” he says, voice shaking. “When I electrocuted Snoke, I could feel my eyes going. He was—down on the ground, he wasn’t moving, his body was—there was smoke rising from his flesh, I could have—I could have stopped.” Kylo leans back against the ladder, keeps watching Hux. “I kept going,” he says, softly. “I kept going until my vision had doubled, and my hands had gone completely numb, and I just—I just kept doing it. I could have prevented this. But I didn’t.”

Hux exhales heavily. “I’m not arguing that Snoke didn’t deserve it,” he says.

“I should have stopped,” Kylo says.

“No,” Hux says, “you shouldn’t have started.” He takes a step closer to Kylo, raises his hand—and then clenches his fist, and puts it back down at his side. “I’m always going to miss—” he starts—and then he stops, shifts into parade rest, and then back out again. “Since, ah.” He gestures vaguely with his hand. “You know what I’m thinking. I can, er.”

Kylo grimaces, shakes his head. “I don’t,” he says, softly. “I can still do it, I’ve just...kept away from your thoughts. I keep away from your thoughts.”

“Ah,” Hux says. “I had assumed...well.” He reaches up, taps his own knuckles on his forehead. “I miss...” He looks up at the chronometer on the wall. “I’m losing daylight,” he says, more to himself than to Kylo. “I need to go.”

“I’ll be here when you get back,” Kylo offers.

Hux nods, presses his gloved hand on the control panel to open the access door. Kylo flinches back a little—the air outside is sharp, a biting cold that coils around Kylo’s bare ankles, and the sunlight is reflecting brightly off the snow. He should just go upstairs—but instead, he follows in Hux’s wake as Hux steps outside, stands in the entrance and watches Hux orient himself, eyes scanning the featureless landscape in front of them. Every breath Kylo takes sends little ice shards into his lungs—but even that feels calming, somehow, like the last of the virus is being frozen out of his chest. Like by the time Hux returns, Kylo will be able to reach inside himself and snap off the parts that have frozen solid, start again with a brand new body, one that’s been inoculated against this kind of hurt.

Hux takes a step forward—and Kylo calls out after him without meaning to.

“Wait.”

Hux turns, raises his eyebrow. “Yes?”

This is a choice. Kylo wants to ask, even if asking hastens his own departure. Even if Hux looks at him again the way that he did in the throne room, Kylo’s hair in his fist, and betrayal in his eyes. Even if Hux—

“What would have happened if I’d stayed?” Kylo asks. “In the hotel. On our date.”

Hux’s face goes flat. “This is...not a good conversation to have.”

He almost reaches out with the Force, tugs on Hux’s sleeve—digs his nails into his palm instead of doing it. “I know,” he says miserably. “I just…”

Hux crosses his arms over his chest, sets his jaw, and doesn’t say anything.

“—I thought we were soulmates,” Kylo says, all in a rush. “I thought the Force was telling me that we were soulmates, and if we were, that we would be one, and if we were, that I would—know everything about you, that the Force would tell me everything I needed to know, that everything would be perfect, and if it went perfect, that it would be right, and—and I was so shaken when I saw you injured, when I realized he had been—hurting you, and I—I hated myself and I—”

_(I thought I had a sign)_

“—I want to know what would have happened if I had stayed. If I had reached for your hand. If I had tapped your palm with my fingers.”

Hux exhales, breath clouding in the air.

“You had a plan,” Kylo continues. “You had a plan, and I...I wish I knew what it had been.”

Hux is looking at him. His mouth is tight, his lips compressed, his gloved fingertips dug into his palms.

“I’m so sorry,” Kylo says. “Hux, I’m...I’m so sorry. I never asked. I just—I just acted.”

“Do you think we’re soulmates now?” Hux asks.

_Yes, more than anything but—_

“It’s complicated,” Kylo says.

_—what if I’m wrong?_

“That’s a shit answer,” Hux says.

“I am having,” Kylo says carefully, “a crisis of faith.”

Hux sighs. “Kylo?”

“Yes?”

“Fuck your faith,” Hux says gently.

Kylo stares at him, stunned—and Hux reaches for Kylo’s hand, intertwines their fingers together.

“Fuck your faith,” Hux repeats, and his breath is warm against Kylo’s cheek.

They stand like that, right next to each other, for an indeterminate amount of time—and then Hux gently disengages their fingers, turns around, and heads out into the featureless landscape of Starkiller Base.

After a moment, Kylo takes a step back—and the door slides closed in front of him.

*

Kylo meditates sitting cross-legged, suspending himself three feet above the ground. He reaches out to the Force, and feels the Force reach back—the vastness of stars and space, the atmosphere swirling around them. The macro reflected in the micro—stars pulsing in time with the beating of his heart, everything in the universe unified—and he and Hux, two celestial bodies drawing closer and closer to each other, but not yet in the same orbit.

(Their lack of synchronization is _wrong_ —but the Force offers no suggestions, and Kylo has run out of ways in which to ask it.)

It used to be that Kylo felt Hux as a spear of ice in the midst of all the heat of the First Order—but now Hux is here, a cold heart on a cold planet, and Kylo wants to warm him up, wants to press his fingers between Hux’s ribs and rub his heart until it melts, splay his fingers around Hux’s organs and warm them up to body temperature.

(He drifts, dreams. Imagines Hux’s hand on his shoulder, on his chest, between his—)

When he opens his eyes, he feels rested. He unfolds from his cross-legged position, lets gravity take ahold of him again. Glances out the viewport to re-orient himself to the physical world. The moonless sky is starting to darken, the last rays of light skimming over the frozen landscape.

Kylo squints out at the featureless snow, finally isolating Hux’s footprints, along with two parallel lines of ice in the snow.

_Supplies_ , he realizes—and he goes downstairs to help Hux unload.

He finds Hux standing outside, smoking. There’s an empty hoversled resting against the observatory, and the snow right in front of the door is tramped down, compressed. The air is cold, but it’s still now, and there’s a slight hum in the Force which indicates that the weather is changing—or maybe it’s a sign—or maybe it’s nothing. (He can hear the distant crash of the ocean against the frozen shore.)

Maybe it’s nothing.

“The work’s already done,” Hux says, without making eye contact. “Was just about to head in to check on you.”

“Didn’t think you’d bother,” Kylo says in return.

Hux looks over, eyes piercing. “I wouldn’t have abandoned you, Kylo. Even if you were pouting.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Look,” Hux interrupts. “I...I meant it, Kylo. What I said. About your...”

“I know you did,” Kylo says softly. “It’s...it’s okay.”

“This isn’t the last thing I’ll say to you, either,” Hux says sharply. Then he sighs. “I’m still...I’m still working out what the rest of it is,” he admits. “I thought I’d know, by now.”

“I’ll listen,” Kylo offers. “And I’m not...I’m not in a rush. You have time, Hux.”

“Mmm,” Hux says, and he leans back against the building and takes another drag on his cigarra. He’s still got his jaw set, but as Kylo watches, Hux visibly relaxes, dropping his jaw to exhale smoke with an open mouth. When he closes his mouth again, his entire face is...softer. “Grand Marshal Hux, if you don’t mind,” he says, before looking at Kylo sidelong. “I might like to see if I want to keep hearing it.”

Kylo’s heartbeat instantly speeds up, and he uses the Force to calm it back down, takes a moment to collect himself. “Of course, Grand Marshal,” Kylo says.

Hux glances over. “You’re not exactly dressed for the weather, Supreme Leader.”

“I put on pants,” Kylo says.

“But no shirt.”

“I was meditating,” Kylo says. “I’ll, uh, go fix that.” He coughs into his bare arm. “I think I’m due for more medication too.”

“Medkit in the control room,” Hux says. “Mind you don’t scare my cat.” He looks out across the frozen wasteland, the last remnants of the sun disappearing behind the horizon. “She was a gift to me.”

“I’ll be careful,” Kylo says gravely.

“Before you go,” Hux says.

“Yes?”

Hux exhales smoke, inhales. Exhales again. “I went to the closest outpost. I brought back additional food,” he says. “It’s too late for me to eat anything heavy tonight.” He glances over his shoulder at Kylo. “The crates are just downstairs.”

Kylo studies him carefully—the colour in his face, the nervous way he fiddles with the cigarra in his fingers, the way his eyes keep moving—and then Kylo smiles. “Thank you, Grand Marshal,” he says.

“Oh, come off it,” Hux says, turning his face away too quickly for Kylo to catch his expression—but Kylo can feel the faint hints of pleasure coming off him anyway.

*

“You should have waited for me,” Hux says.

“It’s okay,” Kylo says, looking down at the neatly packed supplies in the crate he’s got open, trying to figure out if they’re all going to fit in the kitchen proper, or whether some of the items will need to go back downstairs. “I got everything up here, I’m just trying to figure out how to organize it.”

“Used the Force, did you?” Hux asks.

Kylo holds out his hand, flat, palm down, just so that Hux can see it shaking. “Yeah,” he says.

“Well,” Hux says, taking a few steps closer, and then running a cloth under the tap to moisten it. “The sled does have repulsors on it. It was more or less just a walk. Here, look at me.”

Kylo turns to him, and Hux puts on hand on the side of Kylo’s face, fingers touching the scar. Brings the other hand up, uses the wet cloth to carefully dab underneath Kylo’s nose.

(Kylo can’t stop looking at him, at the way Hux’s brow is furrowed, the quick way his green-gray eyes dart back and forth across Kylo’s face. Hux’s fingertips are cold against his skin, and Kylo wants to lean into it, press against him, pull Hux into his arms and never let him go again.)

“Don’t push yourself,” Hux says quietly. He taps his cold fingers on Kylo’s cheek, turns Kylo’s attention to the damp cloth in his other hand, which is smudged brown-red.

“Kriff,” Kylo breathes. He brings his hand up under his nose, wipes at the damp skin there.

“I got it all,” Hux says. “But next time you feel the need to heroically throw things around with the Force, maybe don’t.” He gestures to the crate that Kylo has partially unpacked. “Feel free to have whatever you like—none of it’s any good.” He steps back away from Kylo, pulls a face. “Even that soup you were going on about tastes horrid when you’re not on death’s door, but I brought more of it back anyway.”

“I could try seasoning it,” Kylo offers. “Make enough for you too?”

Hux’s shoulder lifts, almost imperceptibly. “I told you, I won’t be eating.”

“...alright,” Kylo says, oddly disappointed. He rubs his knuckle under his nose again, wishes he was bleeding again just so that Hux would have an excuse to touch him.

“If you leave something in the conservator for me, I’ll try it,” Hux says. It’s a concession. “Could you feed Millie, please? I don’t know where she’s gone, but I’m sure she’ll come running if you set some food out for her. It just needs to be warmed up, but it’s labelled with her name.”

“Yes, Grand Marshal,” Kylo says.

Hux looks up at him, raises an eyebrow.

“I, uh,” Kylo says. “What you said, earlier. I do want you to like it?”

“We’ll see,” Hux says—and this time, he lets Kylo see him smile.

*

Hux extinguishes all the lights in the kitchen before padding near-silently into the bedroom, illuminated only by the dim light coming up from the hatch.

“You can go ahead with the sonic,” Kylo says softly.

“I told you,” Hux says mildly, “to sleep in the bed.”

“And I told you,” Kylo says from his place on the floor, “that you could have it back.”

“I’ll never be able to sleep with you lurking in the corner like a deactivated droid.”

“Well, I won’t be able to sleep if I’m lying in your bed, and you’re lurking around in the lower level with all the crates.”

Hux sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re...look, Kylo. I’m fine. I have a place to sleep.”

Kylo inhales to demand more details—and then exhales without saying anything. “Fine,” he says. He pulls the blanket tighter in around him. “I’m done with the sonic,” he says.

“And I’m done with listening to you whine. Get in bed,” Hux says, voice soft.

“I—”

“Get. In. Bed.”

Kylo pulls himself up to his full height and stalks the few paces across the room, sits down heavily on the bed. “Happy?”

“Very,” Hux says, putting his hand on Kylo’s shoulder and pressing on it until Kylo lies down. “Goodnight, Kylo,” he says. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Kylo listens to Hux go, to his footsteps descending the ladder. Enough sound filters up from the lower level for Kylo to hear that Hux has picked up Millie—and then he stops listening, closes his eyes, and tries to sleep.

*

“Look at you,” Hux says the next day.

“Huh?” Kylo says inelegantly, looking back over his shoulder. “Kriff, Hux, you startled me.”

“What are you doing?”

“Cooking,” Kylo says. “Figured I’d get it started before I go shower.”

Hux’s eyes trace over his body, head to toe. “These are different clothes than yesterday.”

“I, uh,” Kylo says, suddenly self-conscious of how tight his clothing is. He waves his hand absently over the stove to prevent either of his pots from boiling over, and then levitates the rehydrated vegetables over into the broth. “...didn’t know how long I’d be staying.”

“Mmm,” Hux says. “You realize that you’re just layering shit on top of shit.”

Kylo tilts his head and raises his eyebrow.

“All the food’s dehydrated, frozen, or canned,” Hux says. “Shit, on top of shit.”

Kylo smiles in spite of himself. “We’ll see, Grand Marshal.”

Hux rolls his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Have you seen Millie?”

It takes only a moment to locate her—she’s a bright little pinprick of light in the Force, down on the lower level of the compound. “Down in the basement.”

Hux sighs, heads for the hatch. “I keep telling her not to go down there. There’s nothing down there.”

Kylo nods, and then turns back to the stove, uses the Force to carefully pour the contents from both pots into a larger pot which he then slides into the oven. He’s got—twenty, maybe thirty minutes, before he has to check on it, which is more than enough time for him to shower and get his gym clothes into the wash.

He strips off in the bedroom, leaves his clothes in a pile on the floor, and then heads for the sonic. He still doesn’t like the thing—but if Hux lets him stay out here for any significant period of time, he’s pretty sure he can rig up something to convert it into a water shower. For all he knows, Hux already knows how to do that—Hux probably does know how to do that, he’s fucking brilliant.

Kylo runs his hands through his hair, letting the vibrations get the dirt and the sweat out of it. He’s lucky Hux had gone out on a walk, and had missed the sorry excuse of a thing that Kyo was calling a workout—he’d run up and down the stairs to the basement about four times before he had to stop and cough until his eyes teared up. He’d finished the rest of his workout walking, and had still sweat right through the back of his tank. He wonders if Hux—

—no, no use thinking of Hux now. He just needs to—clean himself. He does this with his eyes closed, dropping into a Force meditation so that he doesn’t have to think about what his hands are doing on his body. It’s been nearly a year, the entire procedure is muscle memory at this point, so he can just think about—the Force itself (feel at the back for the lock), the vast limitlessness of space, (unlock the device), the way that Hux’s—snow, miles of endless snow, (careful removal),  individual flakes stuck on transparent eyelashes and (hover it up to the sonic, his hands on his)—the northern lights (rotate the device to ensure it’s cleaned), shifting and moving in the sky above, (a few more moments) singing the Force’s song echoing across the atmosphere (ease himself back in) stars and lights and an oxygen-less environment where he wouldn’t need to breathe or exist in human form, where he would be—a formless being, the embodiment of the Force, he would be—

—Kylo opens his eyes. He’s clean. He deactivates the sonic, and steps out into the ‘fresher. Runs his hands through his hair, and pads barefoot out back to the bedroom.

There’s a sharp inhalation, and Kylo looks over just in time to see a flash of ginger hair disappearing down the hatch.

_Fuck._

He dresses quickly. Loose black pants, another black tank. He pulls his hair into a bun at the back of his neck, doesn’t bother putting on shoes before jumping down to the main floor, and intercepting Hux while Hux is pulling on his white cape and jamming his feet into his boots at the same time.

“Hey,” he says. “Hux, I...”

(Fuck, Hux looks so good in white.)

Hux looks up at him. His face is flushed, his lower lip slightly swollen as though it had been caught in his teeth moments before. “I, er.”

“We don’t have to—”

“—was just heading for another walk—”

“—talk about it, that was—”

“—get some fresh air—”

“—sloppy of me,” Kylo finishes, before looking at Hux. “Your cape is crooked.”

Hux hesitates.

Kylo steps closer. “May I?”

Hux sets his jaw, nods tightly.

He could use the Force for this—but he uses his hands instead, gently adjusts the gold chain and clasps keeping the cape on Hux’s shoulders, straightens the epaulets.

(He can feel Hux breathing right next to his ear.)

“There,” he says.  “Have a nice—”

Hux inhales deeply. His face is right next to Kylo’s, his breath whispering past Kylo’s ear.

“—walk,” Kylo says, and his voice cracks.

“Sure,” Hux breathes. “Supreme Leader.”

“Grand Marshal,” Kylo says.

Hux doesn’t move. Neither does Kylo.

“I don’t know how much you saw,” Kylo says.

“Consider me thoroughly educated,” Hux breathes. “In your...current state of dress.”

Kylo swallows. “And is my current state of dress...acceptable?”

“I can work with it,” Hux says, voice low. “If you’re willing.”

“I am,” Kylo says. “Grand Marshal. Please.”

Hux leans in, presses his cheek against Kylo’s. “Don’t burn my food,” he says, softly. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

“Shit,” Kylo says. He reaches out with the Force to the kitchen above, flicks off the stove and dissipates most of the heat from inside it.

“I mean it,” Hux says. “I expect an actual meal tonight.”

“Yes, Grand Marshal.”

*

Hux steps into the kitchen—and immediately stops. His eyes flick up to the chrono mounted on the wall, and then back down to the table.

“I was gone for seventeen minutes,” he says.

“Yes,” Kylo agrees. “You were.”

“There are _flowers_.”

“Well,” Kylo hedges. “Not really.” He puts his hand over top of the flowers, wiggles his fingers—which go right through the small purple petals. “They’re an illusion. It’s symbolic of...never mind.”

“No, go on,” Hux says, coming into the kitchen and taking a seat at the table.

“Did you have a nice walk?”

“The flowers, Kylo.”

“...new beginnings,” Kylo says. “Spring, and the snow melting, and...starting over. I thought it was important to...I find the symbolism calming.”

Hux considers this a moment, eyes lingering on the flowers in the middle of the table. “Is the rest of the meal symbolic as well?”

“No,” Kylo deadpans, “it’s shit on top of shit.”

Hux looks up at him, and then laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners, and teeth showing. It hits Kylo like a blow to the chest. He’s spent so many years of his life not having this, and the fact that Hux is this person, underneath everything, is still fascinating to Kylo, compelling, it’s still something that Kylo—

“That’s about what I deserved,” Hux says, still smiling.

—loves.

“It’s soup,” Kylo says, awkwardly. He serves up a bowl, and then picks it up, sets it down in front of Hux. “Here—the bowl is hot, so mind it.”

Hux’s index finger lightly taps the side of the bowl before he exhales sharply, and pulls his finger away.

“I told you it was hot.”

“You had your fingers right on it,” Hux grouses.

Kylo dishes up his own bowl of soup, sets it down at his end of the table, and then holds his hands out, palms up, to Hux. “Look,” he says.

Hux gives his fingers a cursory glance—and then his eyes narrow, and he reaches up and holds Kylo’s bare hand in his own, brushes his index finger against Kylo’s own, abnormally smooth one. “And here I thought that hand-signing everything was a mark of pretension from our new Supreme Leader.”

“The skin healed fine,” Kylo says. “But medical couldn’t do anything for my fingerprints.”

“Reconstructed implants?”

Kylo grimaces. “No, thank you.” He reaches into the oven one more time, pulls out a tray of bread, sliced into rounds and slightly toasted. “There’s nothing to spread on them,” he warns.

Hux shrugs, takes a piece anyway and sets it on the side of his plate. Waits for Kylo to sit down before he starts eating, and the sheer politeness of the gesture makes Kylo’s chest clench.

Kylo should eat—he knows he should eat—but he just wants to watch. Hux’s hands are elegant and beautiful, though rougher than what they used to be, and it’s fascinating to watch the finicky way that Hux pokes at the soup with his spoon, as though he’s categorizing all the ingredients in it, before finally lifting a spoonful of it up to his lips.

“Oh,” Hux says. He looks across the table at Kylo, eyes soft. “It’s good, Kylo.”

Kylo grins, ducks his head. “Thank you,” he says. He takes a spoonful of his own soup. It’s not bad—not as good as the meals he usually gets on the Supremacy but parsecs better than the little jars of cold protein slurry in the conservator. He opens his mouth to say something else, and then looks over at Hux, and realizes that Hux is happy, so he closes his mouth, and eats his soup quietly, feeling warm in a way that has nothing to do with the food.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Hux says, after he’s finished his bowl of soup and his bread. He’s playing with his spoon the same way he usually plays with his stylus—tipping it back and forth on his fingers, balancing it on his knuckles, tapping it repetitively on the table. “I, uh, assumed that you would be wearing a towel when you came out.”

Kylo feels his face flush. “I don’t usually,” he says. “Not with a sonic, I just—get dressed.”

“I had no way of knowing that,” Hux says gently. “Any time you were fresh out of the shower on a holocall, you had a towel wrapped around your hips.” His cheeks go a little pink, and he looks down at his spoon.

Kylo hums. “Hux…”

Hux looks up.

“You just wanted to see me in my towel,” Kylo teases.

“It’s been a while,” Hux says wistfully. “This is the closest that I’ve been to you since...since before I took off my—”

Kylo reaches across the table until his hand is right next to Hux’s, but doesn’t touch him. “Pause,” he says softly. It takes him a moment to look up at Hux, but when he does, Hux is watching him. “It wasn’t your fault,” he continues. “I wasn’t...repulsed by what I saw on Dorsoduro, I was—hurt, by what it represented.” He swallows. “I was...arrogant enough to believe that I knew everything of importance in your life, and arrogant enough to believe that I could fix it by myself, and...I fucked up.”

“Oh, Kylo,” Hux says, and he shifts his hand so that it’s just barely touching Kylo’s. “Snoke was never of any importance in my life.”

The weight of that statement is too much for Kylo to process—and so he doesn’t, tucks it away so that he can meditate on it later, some time when it doesn’t matter how much his voice shakes or his mind wavers, some time when he doesn’t have to worry about the strength of his own emotions or the anger that he still holds toward Snoke and everything that Snoke had ruined.

(The things that Snoke had ruined—and the things that Kylo had ruined himself.)

“R-resume,” Kylo says.

Hux closes his eyes for a moment, and then opens them again. “I meant what I said earlier, when you arrived—I still love you. And I believe that you love me too.” He pushes his chair back, stands. Drums his fingers on the table. “But I need to know that what happened before will not happen again. I need you to...meditate on this, or think on it, or commune with—whatever you need to commune with.”

Kylo nods, too hesitant to even hope.

“Thank you for the meal,” Hux says. “It was delicious. I’m going to work on a project downstairs for the remainder of the day, but when it gets dark, I’ll be out at the hot springs.” He shifts his feet, and then makes steady eye contact with Kylo. “If you want to try to forge a...relationship. If you are confident that I can trust you. If you trust yourself.” Hux hesitates. “If we are in this together—we are together in everything. Not only when it suits you. Not only when it suits me. Always.”

Kylo closes his mouth and nods, not trusting his voice. “I’ll think about it,” he says.

Hux nods. “Thank you, Kylo,” he says. Bites his lip. “We can be friends, if you decide...against anything else. And regardless of your decision—thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Kylo breathes. He watches Hux go—and, for once, he doesn’t regret the loss.

*

Time feels like an illusion, and the rest of the day stretches out in front of Kylo endlessly. He cleans up the dishes, using the Force as much as he uses his hands, tidies the entire kitchen. Does the laundry again, remakes the bed. He wants to work out, but he doesn’t want to disturb whatever Hux is doing in the basement—so he gets dressed in his winter gear, and jogs around the base, lungs burning.

_If you want to try to forge a relationship_

He can hear the ocean. It’s alive, crashing against the shore, wearing it away bit by bit. He would let Hux do that to him—press against him, wear away the sharp edges and the bits that don’t belong, let Hux recreate Kylo into the image that Hux wants him to be.

Kylo lies down in the snow, stares up at the sky. Watches the sun set, slow and gentle, the colours of the sky rippling out across the landscape. Pinks fading to purples, sunbeams cutting through the skiffs of clouds. There’s a light dusting of snow falling—large flakes that drift through the sky, land on his cheeks and his eyelashes and his nose. He lets them fall, lets them melt with the heat of his body. His chest aches, and his heart is full and empty at the same time, the weight of what they could have had pressing him down into the snow—but the possibility of what they could still have yet is what pulls him upward, pulls him vertical, and sends him back to the observatory to get cleaned up.

(He can feel the small bright light of Hux’s Force presence, leaving the observatory and heading in the direction of the hot springs, presence hopeful and nervous and ebullient, all at the same time.)

Kylo counts his breaths, counts his steps back to the observatory. He walks back a slightly different route than the route he used to get out to the ocean, forging new ground through the snow the entire way back. This is it.

This is the second chance that he doesn’t deserve to have. The second chance that Hux has given him. The second chance that he refuses to squander.

Kylo carefully undresses outside, standing in the snow outside the observatory. He folds his clothes, leaves them in a neat pile outside of the door. Closes his eyes, and enters the observatory wearing nothing but his cockcage.

His footsteps are completely silent in the emptiness of the observatory. Hux isn’t here. Hux has never been here, not really—he’s just been inhabiting the liminal spaces, waiting here until he knows what he’s going to do with the rest of his life.

Kylo has been waiting too. He’s been waiting for this.

He steps into the sonic, turns the intensity up as high as it goes. Cleanses his entire body—his hair, his face. His chest, his back, his arms. Legs, feet. And then—the cage. The silver cage that he put on after Hux broke his heart, the cage that he locked himself into because he couldn’t figure out how else he was supposed to be human.

(Those were dark days, when he woke up in bacta and realized that he was alone. He was a Supreme Leader without a Grand Marshal, an enforcer without a general to guide him. He was alone, when he should have been with his soulmate—and it was his fault. His, and no one else’s.)

He wraps his fingers around the cage, lifts it and takes the weight off for a moment. He is—contained, this way. Constrained. Reliable. He knows exactly how things will go from here, exactly how his body will respond to everything. He has control of the anger and the passion, the lust and the depravity. He has everything pinned down.

He shuts the sonic off with a thought, steps out of the stall. Closes his eyes. He summons the silver circlet from his bag, a sheer cape to go with it. He leaves his hands unadorned. Leaves the rest of his body naked.

(Hux will see him as he is.)

Footsteps are not necessary, but he walks out anyway, matching his path to Hux’s. His cape flutters out behind him as he goes. He knows it’s elegant. He knows it’s dramatic.

( _This is me. Do you still want me?_ )

He pauses, at the top of the rise. Looks down into the hot springs, the distinct little pools of them. There’s a wooden path, lit by small lanterns, that meanders down the hill, and he can see the frost imprints left behind in Hux’s wake. There are a number of pools at the bottom of the descent, steam rising up from each of them, the water a beautiful turquoise.

And Hux, Hux himself?

He’s sitting in one of the closest pools with his naked back to Kylo. His red-gold hair is pushed back from his face, covered with a layer of white frost. His left arm is stretched out across the rocks, and his right is holding one of Kylo’s cigarras to his mouth. As Kylo watches, Hux inhales, and then exhales a perfectly even plume of smoke.

The wooden boards are cold on Kylo’s feet. There’s a grit in the planks that prevents them from being slippery. He places every footstep over Hux’s own, following Hux’s exact path downwards.

When he finally finishes the descent, he’s standing right behind Hux. He can feel the Force coursing through his veins, can feel it mixing with his nervous energy—or maybe this is nothing, and the nervousness is his, has been the entire time. Maybe the Force is implacable, maybe it’s unemotional, maybe it’s—

Hux has not turned to look at him.

Kylo looks up at the sky. It’s overcast, a grey uniform covering of clouds, and snowflakes falling down onto them both, steam rising up from the pools. He reaches out a hand, and there is light, now, coming from inside him, rising up from his palms, his skin, his very body itself. He is illuminated, he is illustrious, he is—nervous, and afraid, and apprehensive of what it means to take the next step.

(He has always, he thinks, feared the isolation of the unknown—but Hux is here, now.)

“Hi,” Kylo says. His voice wavers.

Hux stills a moment, and then turns his head slightly so that he’s looking back over his shoulder at Kylo. He looks Kylo up and down, and then brings the cigarra to his lips again. “Ah,” he says, lips parting, and then closing around the cigarra.

The tip of it flares as he inhales. The water laps against the edge of the pool as Hux shifts his body so that he’s turned toward Kylo, just fractionally, eyes scanning over Kylo’s body, settling, finally, on Kylo’s eyes.

“Here I am,” Kylo says. He takes a breath. He can feel his eyes burning, hot wetness building up behind his lashes. “Once for yes, and twice for—”

Hux raps once, sharply, on the wood.

Kylo’s face is hot, suddenly, the heat searing down his cheeks in a bright line, and—oh.

He reaches up and wipes his face with the back of his hand, smears salt-water tears across his cheek. Sniffs. Looks at Hux’s profile, glorious and proud, his skin flushed by the heat of the pool.

“I love you,” Hux says plainly, looking up at Kylo. “I’ve never stopped loving you, even though you made it atrociously difficult. I hated myself for doing it, but I couldn’t stop.”

“I love you too,” Kylo says. He crosses his arms over his chest, shudders.

Hux turns back to the water. “You’ve been ill, Kylo. You should get into the pool.”

“Yes,” Kylo breathes. He wipes his face again once more, and then hesitates. Takes his hand to the clasp of his sheer cape and undoes it, lets go. The cape drifts off his shoulders, held down by the weight of the trim on the edge of it, and falls to the wood.

He has so many things to say about the choices he’s made in his life—the ones he’s made that hurt Hux, the ones he’s made that hurt himself. There are entire speeches he could write on the meaning of the Force, and how it’s shaped everything he’s done, on how his concepts of destiny and greatness and rightness had all bound together into a series of signs that Kylo was able to see—but now isn’t the time. None of that matters.

This is his chance. He needs to present himself to Hux as he is, and trust that Hux will accept him. He needs to start over, the right way. No more impulsivity. Nothing rash. He will be careful, this time. Now, and always.

He brings his hand up to his circlet, takes it off. Rubs his thumb across the surface of it, the smooth silver, the way it’s been shaped perfectly to fit his head. Then he opens his hand and lets it fall, lets it clatter to the wood below him.

He looks down. The circlet is between his bare feet. He can see the silver of his cock cage between his legs.

The key is back at the observatory—but he doesn’t need the key to open it. He has never needed the key to open it. Kylo places his hand on the body-warm metal, and _wills_ it open, and the lock falls to the ground in two pieces. He holds the metal cage in his hand a moment.

“Kylo,” Hux says, his voice a strained whisper.

“There should be nothing between us,” Kylo says, without looking up. It doesn’t matter whether Hux is looking at him or not—this has to happen, regardless. “This is not something to be solved with the Force.” He gently eases the cage away from his genitals, lets them flop back against his thighs. “This is between you and I, Hux. That’s it. That’s all.” He opens his hand, and he lets the cage fall.

It lands beside the circlet. Kylo steps over them both, completely nude, and kneels at the edge of the pool. The wood underneath his knees is cold, but the air coming off the pool is hot, thick with moisture, and calming on his lungs.

“Hux,” Kylo says.

Hux’s eyes are wide and the colour of sea-ice, his hair is like a brilliant sunrise, and he is the only person that Kylo Ren has ever loved in his life.

“Armitage?”

Hux reaches out and puts his hand on Kylo’s knee. He brings his first and second fingers up, and deliberately taps them against Kylo’s skin.

Once for yes.

Kylo inhales, a rough, ragged breath. Hux is touching him, Hux has his hand on his skin, Hux is—

—oh.

Kylo squeezes his eyes shut, tries to block the Force out. No barriers, there will be no barriers between them, there will be no—

He reaches down to his hardening cock, grabs it to shift it viciously out of the way—and is stopped by Hux’s hand on his wrist.

Kylo opens his eyes, and Hux moves his hand back to Kylo’s knee. Raises his eyebrow, and nods.

“Tell me to stop,” Kylo rasps. His hand has curled, of its own volition, around his—

—no.

His hand has wrapped—

—he’s wrapped his hand around his hardening cock because he wants to.

“Tell me to stop,” Kylo whines. “Hux, I—please, can you?”

Because this is the culmination of everything he has denied himself.

“If you start, you won’t be able to stop?” Hux asks.

Because if it’s okay to have this, it would have been okay to have other things too.

“Tell me to stop,” Kylo repeats. “Hux, I—I want…”

“What do you want?” Hux breathes.

Because if he is wrong about this…

Kylo blinks, and his face is wet again. He blinks, and there are tears hanging in his eyelashes. He blinks, and his hand is on his forming erection and Hux is watching him and nothing is changing. He doesn’t feel his connection to the Force disintegrating. He doesn’t feel as though he is dying.

(He feels as though he is being reborn.)

“...you won’t tell me what to do, will you,” Kylo says, the realization coming to him slowly, like a flower blossoming to life.

“No,” Hux agrees. “I won’t. Not right now, at least. Not in this context. Not tonight.”

Kylo swallows. “I have to do this alone.”

“Well,” Hux says. “Not exactly.”

Kylo looks at him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Hux says. He takes a long inhalation from his cigarra, grins at Kylo with it dangling from between his lips. “Not unless I’m specifically asked.”

“I’m not asking you to go,” Kylo says quickly. “I just…” He looks down at his cock. It’s softened in his hand. He runs his thumb across the skin of it, but the pad of his thumb is just as numb as the tips of his fingers, and he feels nothing.

Hux rubs his thumb against the side of Kylo’s knee—and that, he feels.

“Hey,” Hux says. “It’s alright. You’ve been locked up for nearly a year—give the poor thing a minute.” He exhales smoke, and then plucks his cigarra from his lips and sets it down in the snow where it hisses and goes out. He squints at Kylo’s cock, tilting his head to the side. “No piercings?”

“I mean, my ears, but…”

“Some cages require piercings,” Hux says. His mouth twists. “I, uh, did research.”

“I didn’t opt for one of those,” Kylo admits.

Hux chuckles. “I can see that,” he says. “Breathe, love.”

Kylo nods, takes a deep breath. The hot air feels good in his lungs, and he breathes deeper than he has in days, confident that it won’t prompt a fit of coughing. He brushes his knuckle underneath one eye, and then the other, watches Hux watch him. Hux is making direct eye contact—right until his gaze drops, the corners of his mouth turning up.

Hux’s tongue darts out, licks his lips. “You’re filling up,” he observes, the calm tone of his voice belied by the intensity in his eyes, and the flush in his cheeks.

Kylo shifts his thumb. He still doesn’t feel the touch in his hand—but he feels it on his dick, the dryness of his own hands, the tips of his fingers gently curled against the shaft.

He tightens his grip. His cock is warm and heavy in his hand, the flesh starting to firm underneath his palm. Hux’s fingers twitch where they’re resting against his knee, and Kylo spreads his knees a little further, winces when his balls touch the cold platform—but even that feels good, after the initial shock.

“Keep your hand there, please,” Kylo breathes.

Hux chuckles. “So polite.” He squeezes Kylo’s knee. “You’re doing so well,” he says. “How does it feel?”

Kylo takes a shuddering breath, looks down at his cock. There’s a bead of fluid gathering at the tip, and he reaches out, brushes against it with the tip of his finger. His precome is warm, slick. Kylo rubs it between his fingers, and it—it doesn’t feel like failure. “I’m going to close my eyes,” he announces, rather than answering Hux’s question, because—where would he even start?

(How would he even describe giving himself something that he’s denied he’s wanted his entire life?)

With his eyes shut, there’s just—there’s just his body, and there’s Hux, and there’s nothing else. They’re the only two people here, and there is nothing to interrupt them this time. Sitting here, on the shell of a planet that’s going to grow up to be a superweapon, both of them can do whatever they want.

He tightens his grip on his cock, feels it twitch underneath his palm. “Armitage?” he asks.

“Mmm?”

“Can you, uh. Can you...talk to me?”

“Of course I can,” Hux responds. “I remember how you used to love my voice.”

“Still do,” Kylo says. “So much, Armitage. I always have.”

Hux sighs. “Stars, you’re beautiful,” he says softly. He shifts, water lapping against the edges of the pool. “That never changed either,” he confides. “I...dislike a lot of what’s happened—but I can’t deny that you’re gorgeous.”

Kylo whimpers, gives his cock one slow stroke—and it feels fantastic, like someone is stepping on his chest, like all the air is being crushed out of his body in one long, slow push—but this time, when he inhales, the air comes back in.

“You’re even bigger than you were the last time I saw you, everywhere,” Hux says, caressing Kylo’s knee. “Your arms are absolutely fantastic—I don’t want you to ever wear sleeves when we’re alone together, just so I can stare at your biceps. I never get tired of looking at your hands, how big they are. I still—I still wank to the thought of your hand on my prick, eclipsing it completely.”

Kylo bites his lip, slowly pulls his hand down the length of his cock.

Repeats the motion.

“Fuck yes,” Hux breathes. “Exactly like that, I want you to touch yourself exactly like that—you’re doing so well, Kylo.”

The night air is cold on Kylo’s back, but he can feel the steam from the pool on his chest. Hux’s hand on his knee is a cold and steady pressure, grounding Kylo, keeping him connected to everything. His cock twitches in his hand, and Kylo moans, tightens his grip just a little more, jerks himself off a little faster.

(It’s so intense, all the sensations at once, even with his eyes closed—his entire body is burning up, his pulse pounding in his ears, his cock hard and hot in his hand, the pleasure steadily building and building—but it doesn’t feel overwhelming this time, it just feels—)

“Kylo,” Hux says, voice husky. “I want to remember every inch of you, your ears and your nose and your hair, your chest and your nipples and your abs, your hips and your cock and your balls—and then I want to forget them so that I can discover it all over again the next time I see you naked, and I want you—naked, all the time, as much as you want to be, you can keep your ridiculous outfits, I want you in your boxers in my bed, I want you working out in front of me, I want you—”

“Fuck,” Kylo grits, and he squeezes the base of his cock, curls forward over himself. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m—Armitage, I—fuck—fuck…” He’s aching, hovering right at the edge of a precipice, feeling the ground underneath him crumbling beneath him and if he keeps at this, he’ll fall—

(There’s pressure on his forehead, and when he opens his eyes, he’s staring right into Armitage’s pale face, his yellow eyes reflected back in Armitage’s own grey-green irises. Their foreheads are touching, and Armitage’s hands are on Kylo’s shoulders, one of them dry, and one of them wet.

“Come for me,” Armitage breathes.)

—and Kylo knows that he’ll fall, and his soulmate will catch him.

He gazes into Armitage’s eyes, sees his own pleasure reflected there, and he tightens his grip on his cock, and gives himself the first orgasm he’s ever had by his own hand.

*

(Stars, galaxies, the swirls of nebulae—and all of that power contained within his own body, all of the possibilities in his flesh.)

*

(His entire body is hypersensitive, nerve endings alight with pleasure and joy, and everything grounded by the connection points where his body is touching Armitage’s.)

*

Kylo comes back to himself with Armitage’s fingers tightening on his shoulders, and his name a gentle whisper from Armitage’s lips.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

“Fuck,” Armitage repeats. “Look at you.”

“Don’t need to,” Kylo murmurs. “I can feel it everywhere.” His entire body feels over-sensitive and strange. There’s a cramp in his left foot, and a distinct tremor in his right hand. He can feel his thighs twitching, still, and he’s as exhausted as he would be after a long, hard fight.

“Well, I’m going to look,” Armitage says. “Here, sit up, let me see—oh, Kylo.” He blinks, bites his lip. “Well.”

Kylo tips his head back, wipes his arm across his forehead—and then stops. “Look up at the sky,” he says, voice hoarse.

The clouds have cleared, and the sky is awash with ribbons of blue-green light, shifting and moving, changing colour from blue to green and then back again. It’s stunning.

Armitage chuckles, exhales. “Northern lights,” he says, softly. “They started the day before you came.”

_It’s a sign_ , Kylo thinks—but he bites his tongue, reaches for Armitage’s hand, and clasps it in his own. “Is there, uh.”

“Yes?” Armitage’s pupils are fat, his mouth parted.

Kylo exhales, stares back up at the northern lights. “May I come in and warm up? Get cleaned off?”

“Please,” Armitage says, voice low.

“Thank you,” Kylo says, voice breaking. He shifts onto his hip, straightens his legs. Sticks his feet in the water, and gasps. “Oh, kriff, that’s hot.”

“It’s a hot spring,” Armitage drawls. “It’s meant to be hot. It’s good for you.” He hesitates a moment. “They had these on Arkanis,” he says, finally. “Where I’m from.”

“Are they symbolic of something?”

“No,” Armitage says, turning his head away.

Kylo uses the opportunity to slide the rest of the way into the water, until he’s sitting right beside Armitage. “I’m, uh,” he says. “Feeling a little...I’d like to be closer to you, if that’s okay.”

Armitage doesn’t say anything, just moves, water splashing as he turns and seats himself on Kylo’s thighs, arms on Kylo’s shoulders, hands loosely entwined behind Kylo’s neck. “Better?”

His weight on Kylo’s thighs is grounding, comforting. It feels like something finally clicking into place, like a thing that was fated to happen—but this isn’t fate. This is just Armitage and Kylo, and it’s everything Kylo needs.

“Yeah, much better,” Kylo breathes. He reaches into the water, puts his hands on Armitage’s hips, strokes the soft skin there. His eyes start drifting closed, and rather than fighting it, he just tugs Armitage a little closer to him, rests his forehead on Armitage’s shoulder.

“Oh,” Armitage says. “You’re exhausted.”

“Mmm,” Kylo agrees. “Feel like I’ve been training for hours.”

“Ah.”

Kylo continues his slow, careful exploration of Armitage’s hips, discovers that he can rest his thumbs on the points of them and touch his pinky fingers together just over Armitage’s spine. He strokes down Armitage’s buttocks, carefully, moves his fingers and drags them underneath Armitage’s thighs—

Armitage sighs, shifts—and Kylo feels the faint brush of Armitage’s cock against his stomach. He smiles into Armitage’s shoulder, moves his hands back to his hips, and squeezes.

Armitage burrows his head into Kylo’s shoulder, exhales. “Do you need to go back up and lie down?”

Kylo turns his head, speaks directly into Armitage’s ear, voice quiet. “I can feel your little cock nudging my stomach.”

Armitage stills, shudders. “Mmm,” he breathes. “Can you now.”

Kylo reaches with the Force, creates a blanket of warm weight, presses down on Armitage’s back, cradling Armitage against his chest. “Can you feel it?” he asks.

_It’s me_ , he adds, his mental voice echoing quietly in the night air.

“Oh,” Armitage gasps. “I, er.” He breathes into Kylo’s neck, flattens his hand on Kylo’s chest, rocks against Kylo’s stomach. “...that’s nice.”

“You hesitated?”

“...you’re tired,” Armitage says, finally. “You came so hard you nearly blacked out, and that was a big...step for you, in a number of ways.” He shifts, wriggles in Kylo’s lap. “You can relax, it’s fine.”

Kylo drops his hand from Armitage’s hip to his thigh, draws his hand down Armitage’s leg. Armitage makes a high-pitched squeaking sound, which he tries—unsuccessfully—to muffle in Kylo’s shoulder.

“...may I keep touching you?” Kylo asks.

“Please,” Armitage says, his voice more of a whine than anything. “With your big hands, and with—everything else, that thing that you’re doing with the Force—touch me like that, too. All over.”

“Right here?” Kylo breathes, and he runs his fingertips through the water, up Armitage’s ribs.

“Yes.”

“Right here?” Kylo rubs his thumb over Armitage’s nipple, and Armitage gasps, rolls his hips against Kylo’s stomach. “What about down here?” He moves his other hand, drags his knuckles over Armitage’s pubic hair. He wants to worship it with his mouth, lick every single curl, press his face against Armitage’s pelvis.

“The Force—too,” Armitage mutters, wrapping his arms around Kylo and pressing his chest up against Kylo’s. “All of it, give me all of it!”

“Here,” Kylo says, carefully wrapping Armitage’s body in the weight of the Force, using it like a blanket, pressing their bodies together. Pressure, everywhere, pressure and warmth and a sense of comfort, something that will knit the two of them together. He puts his hands on Armitage’s hips under the water again, pulls Armitage a little further up his thighs. “What will you, er. What will you say if you need me to slow down?”

“Slow down,” Armitage says, breathlessly. He grinds up a little against Kylo’s stomach, sighs. “Or,” he offers, “you could reach into my head. Just, like—that shallow thing, where you’re just at the front of my forehead.”

Kylo hesitates, extends his awareness just the slightest bit toward Armitage—

_AND I CAN HEAR YOU THIS WAY LIKE ON JAKKU HEAR YOU THIS WAY LIKE ON JAKKU HEAR YOU THIS WAY_

_Hi_ , Kylo thinks at him, and the uproar in Armitage’s head dies down.

“You’ll know,” Armitage says softly, mind continuing to quiet, the hum of his thoughts soft and gentle against Kylo’s exploratory touches. “If I need you to slow down.” He stills his hips for a moment. “I don’t need you to slow down right now,” he adds. “I want it faster. If you couldn’t tell.”

_Yes_.

“Go ahead, then,” Armitage says. _Show me_ , he thinks.

Kylo presses the Force against Armitage, and then pulls it back—drags sensations along Armitage’s body, lighting up his nerves everywhere from his ears to his spine to the soles of his feet, all at the same time, seeking out all the places that Armitage can feel pleasure and then gently pressing into them, all the while rocking Armitage’s hips against him, curving his hands underneath Armitage’s ass. Kylo can’t feel anything except the pressure he’s exerting—but Armitage is gasping out his pleasure, and so Kylo tightens his grip, ruts Armitage’s hard cock up against Kylo’s soft one.

_so beautiful so beautiful so beautiful_

Armitage moans. Arches up against Kylo, and Kylo turns his head, opens his mouth, kisses Armitage, long and deep.

_more more more more_

The exact way that Armitage wants to be kissed is right at the forefront of his thoughts, and Kylo sifts through the sensations, replicates them exactly with his own tongue, with his lips, with a little bit of teeth. _Go ahead,_ he thinks, _bite me_ , and Armitage nips at Kylo’s lower lip once—and then does it again, shivering with bliss..

_kylo kylo kylo_

“Tell me what you want,” Kylo breathes. “Think it at me, I’ll hear it, anything—gonna give you everything, everything your cock needs—”

Armitage pulls back from Kylo a little, peers at him. The air around them is fogged, and there is still a white sheen of frost in Armitage’s hair. Kylo shifts his right hand from Armitage’s hip to his cock, covers the entire thing with his palm and then curls his fingers around it, marvelling at how small it seems in his grip, how hard it is, the slight give of the foreskin when he drags his knuckles up the shaft—

“Is this good like this?” Kylo murmurs, listening to the way Armitage’s heartbeat picks up, to the way pleasure sparks under his skin, to the pleased warmth of his thoughts and his—

“Hey,” Armitage says, stroking Kylo’s face gently with his fingertips.

Kylo turns his head, kisses Armitage’s plush lips—and tastes salt. He pulls back. “Did I—”

“You’re crying,” Armitage says, gently. “It’s okay.”

Kylo rubs the back of his hand across his face, looks down at the wet streaks across his skin. “Oh. I, uh. I didn’t notice.” His face heats up. “I, er.”

“I cry when I come sometimes too,” Armitage confides, rocking his hips and bringing his hands up to frame Kylo’s face. “If it’s been a while...if I’m particularly emotional about it...if I’m...oh, hell...if I’m horribly in love with the person that I’m with...put your hands back on me, yes?”

“Yes,” Kylo says. “Armitage, _yes_.”

Armitage sighs, tugs at Kylo’s earlobes, rolls his hips. “Put your hands—on my hips again, you’ve got this—kriff, Kylo, you’ve got—ah!—this—your abs are just—fuck, I don’t even know how you ran things—when you spent this much time—in—the—gym—kiss my neck?”

Kylo bends his head, presses his lips against the white of Armitage’s skin, the paleness there, kisses him gently, so gently, his hands splayed out over Armitage’s hips, encouraging Armitage to rut up against him, and reaching into the forefront of his mind, where Armitage is thinking about—

— _both of them lying on the side of the hot springs, cocks in each other’s mouths, Kylo’s big hands cradling Armitage’s arse—_

_—the bed, back at the observatory, looking at Kylo spread out underneath him, dark hair spread out over the pillow and eyes wide and open, watching as he lowers himself down—_

_—the kitchen counter, bent over it, tongue lapping at his ass while he breathes Kylo’s name into the durasteel—_

_—held up against a wall, staring into the mask as Kylo fucks him, hard and deep and—_

_—hand splayed across a wide, broad back, spotted with moles, feeding the length of a robotic cock deeper and deeper and—_

—Kylo, he’s thinking about nothing but Kylo, and Kylo gathers up all his love and affection and admiration for Armitage, pours it back into him, and Armitage arches and cries out Kylo’s name to the stars, and Kylo uses the Force to reach inside Armitage, touch all the places that he’s feeling pleasure, amplify every single one of them and feed them all back on each other. He tugs Armitage against him with the Force and puts his hand between their bodies so that he can wrap his hand around Armitage’s cock, stroke him slow and firm and—

—Armitage’s cock spasms in his hand, and Armitage’s breath catches in his throat, spine arching, and head thrown back to the sky, eyelids fluttering, and Kylo cradles him with the Force and with his arms and holds him close, listens to him breathe, the way he pants and gasps and writhes through it—and then, after a few moments, the way Armitage calms, his breathing slowing down, and his body stilling. Kylo loosens his grip, guides Armitage back down into the water, lets him float.

_Rebirth_ , Armitage thinks as he floats in the water, eyes half-closed and pleasure radiating from his entire being. _On Arkanis, the springs symbolize rebirth._

“Thank you,” Kylo says softly. He kneels in the water, shuffles up to Armitage’s head, kisses his cheek. “You’re beautiful.”

Armitage chuckles, sex-drunk. “Come float with me.”

“I’m good kneeling,” Kylo demurs.

“You need to look at what you did, though,” Armitage says.

Kylo trails his fingers down Armitage’s stomach, rubs at Armitage’s pubic hair with the back of his hand, strokes his fingers ever-so-gently against Armitage’s softened cock, encouraging the foreskin back over the head. “I can see it,” he says.

“No,” Armitage says. “Look up.”

Kylo looks up—and the breath is momentarily taken from his lungs.

The northern lights above them have faded from dancing segments of blue and green to a curtain of blood-red, pulsing above them like a kyber crystal—and they’re singing as well, a high-pitched song for the stars that comes in faint phrases through the atmosphere, reverberating down to the crust of the frozen planet that is becoming their superweapon.

“That wasn’t me,” Kylo says, watching the kyber-red ribbons shift and undulate.

“Maybe it’s a sign,” Armitage deadpans.

Kylo starts laughing—but then his breathing goes ragged and his chest clenches, every emotion he has hitting him hot and sudden and completely overwhelming him, regret and loss and hope and fear all tied up together, gutting him and stringing him out, naked and exposed and unprotected, and Armitage is—

—Armitage is here, Armitage is holding him.

“Come on, here, put your head on my shoulder. Kylo. It’s okay now. It’s going to be okay.”

“I almost—I—it’s—”

“Shhhh,” Armitage says. He reaches under the water, finds Kylo’s hand, and intertwines their fingers together.

_I almost_ , Kylo thinks. _I almost—_

_Shhh, you came back to me,_ Armitage thinks in return. He squeezes Kylo’s hand in his. “Anyway,” he adds, “you won’t do anything like that again.”

“No,” Kylo says, once he’s gotten control of his voice again. “No, I won’t.”

“Good,” Armitage says. He stands, extends his hand to Kylo.

Kylo takes it, lets Armitage help him to his feet. His legs are unsteady, his knees weak, and his entire body, even the parts of him that are out of the water are warm and languid and pleasant. “Where to, Grand Marshal?” he asks.

“Take me to bed, Lord Ren,” Armitage says, eyes sparkling. “I, er. Have something for you.”

“Oh?” Kylo asks.

Armitage steps in close, water sloshing around their hips, wraps his arms around Kylo’s neck and kisses him, deeply.

Kylo kisses him back, mouth open, drags his hands slowly down Armitage’s back—

— _he’ll find it he’s going to find it he’ll—_

—runs his index finger down the cleft of Armitage’s ass, and touches something hard.

Kyber.

“You didn’t,” Kylo breathes—but he knows damn well, from the way that Armitage’s face reddens, and the sly smile that spreads across his face, that Armitage Hux did, in fact, come down to the hot springs with a kyber plug shoved up his ass.

“I did,” Armitage says, proud and pleased, all at once. “Would you like to do something about it?”

“I’m going to start,” Kylo says seriously, “by carrying you to bed.”

“And then what?”

“We’ll see,” Kylo says—and the promise is just as vast and full of possibilities as the ice-borne planet that they’re on, the planet they’re shaping to every single one of their desires, making it stronger than it was before they arrived.

Making it stronger, together.

*

Kylo wakes, hard, panting for it, arousal curling in his gut. He reaches down to shift his cage, let off some of the pressure, and touches nothing but flesh.

His palm is on the hard length of his wet cock, and the backs of his fingers touch Armitage’s lower back.

Kylo exhales heavily, blinks in the dim morning light of the observatory, tries to reorient himself to space and time. He must have slipped out of Armitage at some point during the night, or maybe Armitage has disconnected himself—Kylo had been almost delirious with exhaustion and joy by the time they’d finally made it to the bed, any forms of virginity remaining thoroughly divested against the wall of the lower level, up against the ladder, on the kitchen counter, the consoles, the floor of the bedroom—and Kylo can’t wait to do it all over again, to touch Armitage and be touched in return, to slick himself up and bury himself inside the tightness of—

“Awake, are you?” Armitage murmurs from beside him. “Was betting with myself whether you’d wake up before or after you came in your sleep—thought it might have been after.” He rolls over to face Kylo, putting his arm back behind his head. His chest is covered in love bites, and his little tuft of armpit hair is cute in a way that is confounding for Kylo, still. “How are you, love?”

Kylo whimpers, buries his face in Armitage’s shoulder. “What the fuck,” he breathes into Armitage’s skin.

(Armitage still smells of sex—sweat and semen and the slightly off scent of the lube they’ve been using, which is medical grade, thick, and impossible to get off, meaning that it’s now covering most of both their bodies.)

“Hmm?”

“I’m so hard,” Kylo confides, as though Armitage won’t be able to feel the rigid length of his cock pressed up against him, as though Armitage somehow doesn’t know already.

“How long has it been?” Armitage asks. He tugs the blankets out of the way, stares down at Kylo’s cock. Licks his kiss-swollen lips. “Since you’ve, er, woke up like this. Was Jakku the last?”

“No,” Kylo says. “There was, uh. Fuck. I tried, I thought—I thought you’d come around.”

Armitage’s face clouds over a moment, and Kylo instinctively reaches out, puts his hand on Armitage’s face, kisses him. Armitage immediately sighs and relaxes into him, rolling over to face Kylo, and reaching down to wrap his hand around Kylo’s cock.

“Seven times,” Kylo continues. “I woke up—fuck, yes, like that, please—seven times, covered in semen and dreaming of you, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t take it anymore, I couldn’t keep—fuck, couldn’t keep going—without you—I locked it up because I didn’t know how else I’d be able to breathe.” He pulls Armitage in close to him, reaches down and cradles Armitage’s hard cock and his tight balls in the palm of his hand.

“You made it a week?” Armitage breathes. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are dilated, his sex-ruined hair falling forward over his eyes. “Harder, Kylo.”

“Six days,” Kylo breathes, twitching his hips forward into Armitage’s hand. “Fuck, baby, I need it—I want you so bad right now, want you again, I know you must be exhausted, I can’t get enough of you—”

“Just—slide your hand back,” Armitage pants—and then gasps when Kylo does as he’s asked. “Okay, never mind,” he says, “that massive cock of yours—it’s worn my poor little arse right out, one moment, I have an idea—lube?”

Kylo holds out his hand and the tube of lube smacks into his palm, glooping out across his fingertips. “Where do you want it?” he asks. “Your hand, you’ll jerk me off, I’ll suck you after?”

“One better,” Armitage says, rolling back over so that his back is pressed up against Kylo’s chest. “Here, put your hand between my thighs, rub the lube on me right here.”

“I love your thighs,” Kylo breathes. He slides his hand between Armitage’s legs, takes his time spreading lube there, caressing Armitage’s tight balls with his thumb. He reaches through Armitage’s legs, cups Armitage’s cock. “Love this too, love it so much—you want me to get you off like this?”

“After,” Armitage says. “Come now.” He flexes his thighs, squeezes Kylo’s wrist between them. “Put your hands on my hips, and put your cock between my thighs.”

Armitage’s hips are sharp under Kylo’s hands, and the wet slide of his cock between Armitage’s thighs is so glorious and beautiful that Kylo has to stop a moment once he’s in position just to breathe, and calm down. He can feel the head of his cock pressing past Armitage’s balls, brushing up against his shaft.

“Go on,” Armitage whispers. “Fuck me, Lord Ren.”

Kylo swallows, presses his forehead against the back of Armitage’s head. “I won’t last long,” he warns.

“Neither will I, with that monster of yours rubbing against me like this.” Armitage swallows audibly, presses back against Kylo. “Go on, then,” he says. “Fuck me, and then we can both get back to sleep. Or whatever you like.”

“Anything with you,” Kylo rumbles into Armitage’s ear. He twitches his hips, moving only slightly, and then picking up the pace as he starts to get into the rhythm of it, his cock sliding between Armitage’s thighs into the warm blankets, and then back between Armitage’s legs again.

“I don’t like mornings,” Armitage says.

“I remember.”

“I love your cock between my legs like this.”

“I love it too.”

“Fuck, do you mind—I’ll just wank myself off a little here—”

“Yes, yes, whatever what you want,” Kylo says, pressing himself up on one elbow and rolling Armitage over slightly so that he’s half fucking his thighs, half pressing Armitage down into the mattress. “Whatever you want, Armitage—fuck, damn it, I won’t—”

“Stop,” Armitage breathes.

Kylo’s chest hitches and he immediately stops moving.

“No, it’s not bad,” Armitage pants, rolling over onto his back. “Just, would you—finish across my chest, please?”

“Yes,” Kylo gasps. “Yes, right—across your nipples?”

Armitage squeezes his cock in his hand, arches his back, whines.

_yes yes yes yes_

“Do you want my orgasm?” Kylo manages, hand steadily jerking his cock, and his climax approaching at lightspeed.

“Do it,” Armitage says. “I’m going to—I want to—” _the chest thing_

“Yes,” Kylo says. “Go ahead, it’s—okay—”

Armitage reaches up with his other hand, drags his nails across his chest, eyes rolling back into his head in pleasure—and then Kylo tilts over the edge and comes, painting Armitage’s chest with semen, and using the Force to amplify his orgasm and send it, shuddering, over to Armitage.

They collapse into each other, cocks still twitching weakly between them, chests slick. Kylo’s heart is pounding and they’re both panting, trying to catch their breath.

When Armitage tips his head away from Kylo’s chest to take a deeper breath, Kylo shifts off him slightly, flops back onto the pillow with his arm and leg still over Armitage’s naked, slick body.

“I’m not convinced I like this part,” Kylo confides. “The wetness.” He plucks at a lock of Armitage’s hair with the Force, marvels at the way the light plays over the colour of it.

Armitage smirks at him, drags his fingertips through some of the ejaculate on his chest, and then pops them into his mouth to suck noisily at them. “I don’t know,” he drawls, “I kind of like it.”

Kylo snorts. “Do you want the sonic?”

“Mmm, the hot spring,” Armitage says. “And I want you to carry me.”

“Sure,” Kylo agrees affably. He sits up, noting how sore he is, his muscle aches tempered by the full-body lassitude that apparently accompanies his orgasms. “I’ll carry you to the hot springs by way of the sonic.”

“But,” Armitage says.

Kylo swallows.

“It’s nothing bad,” Armitage says hurriedly. “It’s just—what happens next?”

Kylo squeezes his eyes shut. There are so many possibilities, so many things that they can do, and all Kylo wants to do is the right thing. There are too many options—there have always been too many options—he’s never known how to narrow any of it down—but when he opens his eyes again, the only option that matters is right in front of him. “I thought,” Kylo offers, “that we might go home.”

Armitage nods.

“I also thought,” Kylo says. “That you might like to decide where that is.”

Armitage narrows his eyes. “That’s your tactic for dealing with this? I decide?”

“Yes.”

Armitage smiles, tries to hide it, and then gives up. “What if I want to stay here?”

“I’ll need more clothes,” Kylo admits.

“The Finalizer?”

“I’ll have to actually move into my rooms.”

“...the Supremacy?”

“You’ll probably want to redecorate,” Kylo says. “I, uh. Heard a rumour that the Grand Marshal thought that the Supreme Leader was embarking on a rather, er, tacky interior decor scheme.”

Armitage considers it a moment—and then kicks off the sheets and climbs out of bed, stretches, stark naked, chest glistening. “I’m sure the Supreme Leader will come around,” he says, cheerfully. “Anyway, I might like to try my luck on a larger flagship.”

Kylo grins, in spite of himself. “Thank you,” he blurts out.

“You know you’re the only person that’s ever meant anything to me,” Armitage says seriously.

Kylo nods. He feels it like the beat of his heart in his chest, like the rush of blood in his veins, like everything in the entire universe has finally slotted into place, finally come into alignment. This is exactly where he needs to be. He’s made it. “I know,” he says, and it’s the truest thing he’s ever said, or ever will say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **End Notes:** I'm just *clenches fist* so proud of them.
> 
> As always, our thanks to Deadsy for reading this over, and comment-screaming about it.
> 
> And a very, very sincere thank you to Autumn, my co-author--this chapter was originally drafted during a very rough period in my life, and you were (and are) a fantastic cheerleader, a support, and also a friend. Thank you for telling me that I could do it--and thank you, also, for telling me that I could take a break.
> 
> There is a moodboard for this chapter, available on [twitter](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1129391835430948864), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/659455), and the [vast barren hellsite](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/184942574786/reach-out-and-touch-faith-chapter-910-grand).
> 
> There's an interview for this chapter over on [dreamwidth](https://ktula.dreamwidth.org/4545.html), discussing turning points, illness, and that scene that we didn't write.
> 
> There’s also art!
> 
> \- [inspired by chapter seven, by Trashmuffle](https://twitter.com/Trashmuffle/status/1127611062344343552)  
> \- [for chapter seven, by Marzelo](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/180611088471/heyktula-marzarelo-thicc-boi-inspired-by)  
> \- [from chapter three, by Jeusus](https://jeusus.tumblr.com/tagged/reach%20out%20and%20touch%20faith)  
>  
> 
> ktula is on [twitter](https://twitter.com/heyktula), [dreamwidth](https://ktula.dreamwidth.org/), and [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/ktula).
> 
> forautumniam is on [twitter](https://twitter.com/forautumniam), [dreamwidth](https://forautumn.dreamwidth.org/), and [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/forautumn)


	10. Villains of Circumstance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He shifts in his seat, and what a relief it is. His cock starts to swell and fill, the anticipation of what’s to come, and the image of Kylo, the first glimpse he ever got of him, the newest acquisition of the First Order, hooded, stepping out of frame as Armitage offers a tour to Starkiller Base, but he saw him, he saw him; the vibration of a muted comm, then two knocks; breaking into Kylo’s quarters, desperate for another glance; a masked figure turning to face him, mispronouncing his name as he greets him, voice completely flat, and what Armitage thought then: _I cannot read him. I cannot have him. He’s not mine for the taking._
> 
> The ache of their morning quicky eases as he shifts again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And what a long, strange trip it's been. 💝
> 
> Please refer to the end notes for content warnings!

 

**Eight Months Later**

The Grand Marshal uniform was not made for sitting. Armitage is itching to wriggle, but he won’t debase his position in such a way. No: he shall sit still, his spine ramrod-straight, gloved hands resting on the round table. He looks like he’s getting his portrait taken instead of staring down Populist senator Varish Vicly, but if this conversation goes as he anticipates it—well, he’ll have to get used to critical attention, whether it’s a painter’s dissecting gaze or a disparaging politician holding onto the illusion that they have any option but to submit to the Order’s will.

Senator Vicly lowers the datapad. Looks at him, her golden fur frizzled, standing on end with the instinct of a predator sensing the presence of another. Behind her: a splendid sunset of crimson and vermillion, hovering over Republic City like an explosion.

How ironic.

“This,” Senator Vicly says, “is cheap.” She slides the datapad across the table. Armitage doesn’t reach for it.

“On the contrary,” he says, keeping his eyes on the screen displaying the Order’s demands. “It will cost you. You have a price to pay.”

His voice carries. It’s a private meeting; an _unofficial_ one; Senator Vicly wants to keep it under the rug, but she couldn’t risk a one-on-one. Armitage glances at the witnesses, from bodyguards to Populist politicians, hovering by the glass walls like shadows after a nuclear bomb detonation.

One of them will talk.

One of them will sell this story.

It’s vital he’s the one guiding the narrative.

After he leaked the existence of Starkiller (not its location; not its exact function; it only had to be a rumour, a threat, nothing confirmed)—after that beautiful chaos, there’d been an uproar not to engage with the First Order in any way. A cry for justice:  to drag them to a jury, have them executed for armament. Then people started to wonder why would they be so stupid as to break the peace treaty in such a drastic way. What other tricks they might have up their sleeve. What they had to say. 

The galaxy was ready to listen.

The message had to be delivered by their own people.

“Abolition of slavery in all sectors,” Senator Vicly quotes, counting down the items on the twenty fingers of her four arms. “Abolition of child labour. Free public education and healthcare. Progressive income tax.”

“Yes?” Armitage asks, arching an eyebrow. The room is silent for a moment, the air heavy with—what is it? Anticipation or fear?

Kylo would be able to tell.  Armitage just has to think about it, and he hears a low hum, the murmur of Kylo’s Force-presence.

“These are your more...popular demands,” Senator Vicly’s sharp voice cuts through the susurration. Armitage blinks, makes eye contact with her. She drops her gaze to the datapad in the middle of the table. “It’s a list of empty promises that simply cannot be taken seriously,” she says firmly. “It’s an all too transparent campaign speech.”

“You will notice that we have taken the time to outline methods—”

“These,” Senator Vicly interrupts, “cannot be conceived within a democratic framework. You are foolish to think we would elect another Palpatine. We will continue to work towards equality while respecting the customs, traditions, religions and governmental systems of each individual planet; history taught us that democracy is the only way a galaxy with multifarious cultures can operate.”

“Is child labour democratic, then?” Armitage tilts his head slightly to the side, feigning genuine curiosity. Someone coughs: stilted laughter. Armitage’s lips tug up into an answering smile as he keeps his gaze on Senator Vicly.

“I won’t deign to answer that,” she says, resigned. Armitage didn’t expect her to fall for the bait, anyway. “Our goals are rather similar, which you deliberately fail to realise.”

“In what way, if I may ask?”

“Reading through all eight hundred pages submitted, I came to the conclusion you could sum it up in one word: freedom.”

Armitage nods curtly.

“Where we differ is the definition of freedom, and who deserves it,” Senator Vicly goes on, lingering on the last part of the sentence. The low blow Armitage has been anticipating comes with the next breath. “Species not belonging to the human race are not mentioned anywhere in your proposal.”

“Indeed they are not,” Armitage admits after a beat, making her frown. The politicians standing around exchange meaningful glances. “As we hoped it to be evident from our wording, we have an intragalactic approach to politics, which includes all planets, moons, space stations, and all the sentients who inhabit them.”

“Yet you don’t have non-human species in your ranks,” Senator Vicly says.

“Are you ready to meet them?” Armitage strikes back.

Vicly narrows her dark eyes at him, but cannot call his bluff. There’s nothing to indicate that Supreme Leader Ren or his mysterious Knights are human—Armitage knows that from experience; there’s nothing to indicate there are not hidden factions within the Order either. The intel the New Republic has on them is scarce: spies cannot escape Ren’s reach. It’s all rumours and whispers—a terrifying tale that tends to entirely dismiss the organisation, or exaggerate their number and influence.

The real show of power is Kylo himself. Kylo and his bare face, parading around in flamboyant outfits—it used to irk Armitage, but now he sees it for the dare it is: _look at me_. All those people watching him, and yet the name of a certain Ben Solo hasn’t been uttered. It’s their best kept secret, the kind that always lingers on his tongue, _we have Vader’s heir, we have the prince of Alderaan_. The silence is a show of loyalty: a hushed anthem praising the glory of the Order. 

“Are you threatening us, sir?” Senator Vicly asks coolly, with the clear expectation of a flumbering denial.

Armitage allows himself a soft smile, the kind his father used to have: patronizing, with a hint of sharp teeth. “Starkiller is not your biggest concern,” he says. “We have something you lost.”

Kylo when he first joined them: his mind lingers on that. 

“I’m afraid I’m not amused by riddles.”

A puzzle to be solved; how he enticed him. He shifts in his seat, and what a relief it is. His cock starts to swell and fill, the anticipation of what’s to come, and the image of Kylo, the first glimpse he ever got of him, the newest acquisition of the First Order, hooded, stepping out of frame as Armitage offers a tour to Starkiller Base, but he saw him, he _saw him_ ; the vibration of a muted comm, then two knocks; breaking into Kylo’s quarters, desperate for another glance; a masked figure turning to face him, mispronouncing his name as he greets him, voice completely flat, and what Armitage thought then: _I cannot read him. I cannot have him. He’s not mine for the taking_.

The ache of their morning quicky eases as he shifts again.

“How did I get here, Senator?” he asks.

“I said—”

“It’s not a brain-teaser,” he continues. “The answer is rather simple. Hosnian Prime is a planet, so I came here on a spaceship.”

“I don’t see where this is going,” the Senator says, but Armitage can see it in her eyes that she understands.

“Her name is Finalizer. She’s a Resurgent-class battlecruiser; not the best in our fleet, but I am rather fond of her. I served on her when I was a General. It’s a sentimental attachment.” He smiles again. “She is equipped with over a thousand turbolasers and ion canons, point-defence turrets and missiles, and happens to have two starfighter wings. Oh—she’s also a flagship.”

As he says this, shadows cross over them; there’s a gasp, and the low hum of Kylo’s Force becomes audible to everyone as the Order’s starfleet drops out of hyperspace. They soar over the city, nearly colliding with the gleaming skyscrapers. The roar of engines fill everything. The twilight-sky is darkened by their hulking masses, their number indeterminable. For a glorious moment, they hover: they don’t belong here—they look like ghost ships, the haunting memory of the Empire’s might; then they are gone.

There’s a lull.

Senator Vicly reaches for the datapad.

*

_Grand Marshal Armitage: It’s done._

_Supreme Leader Ren: so proud of u babe_

_Supreme Leader Ren: ur coming here?_

_Grand Marshal Armitage: Thank you._

_Grand Marshal Armitage: I’m en route to the Finalizer first, then to the Supremacy, yes._

_Supreme Leader Ren: miss you_

_Grand Marshal Armitage: Sentimental git._

_Grand Marshal Armitage: I miss you too._

*

“—and I want an extra intelligence detail on Hosnian Prime in the wake of this, just until we are certain things have calmed down, and will stay that way.”

Phasma nods on the other side of the holocall, the overhead light glinting off her helmet. “Slicers as well?”

Kylo runs his hand back through his hair, grimaces, and flicks droplets of water onto the floor of his office, careful to avoid Nebulosa, who is sleeping curled up by his desk. “Whatever you think is best, Knight-Captain. I trust you implicitly. We’ll have to keep an eye out on the surrounding systems as well, anywhere that’s given us problems in the past, or may in the future...”

“I have a better handle on this than you do,” she says bluntly.

“You do,” Kylo admits easily. “And I’ll leave you to it.”

She nods, the movement of her helmet sharp as a blade. “Consider it done.”

“Thank you,” he says, leaning forward and putting his hands on his desk. “Anything else?”

“I believe congratulations are in order, Supreme Leader,” she says.

He looks up at her, tilts his head. “You wanted to send three squadrons in.”

“And instead you sent the Grand Marshal alone,” she agrees. “But it got done. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Kylo says, straightening again, and adjusting his silk robe. “Glory to the First Order.”

“All hail.”

He closes the connection with a wave of his fingers, flicks them again to pull up the rest of his data screens. His gaze goes immediately to the hologram of Starkiller, floating in the upper corner of the display, status reports scrolling underneath it. He can’t look at Starkiller without thinking of Armitage, and he reaches down to adjust himself, fingers lingering over his half-hard cock, thumb brushing against it over the silk.

(It’s a fucking beautiful robe, similar to the one that Armitage himself wears, but longer, with a train at the back. Kylo wants Armitage to slip his hand inside it, rest his head on Kylo’s chest. He’ll be tired, probably, from all the stress he’s been under today—Kylo can pick him up and take him to their chambers, nestle him into pillows and finger him open nice and slow, fuck him full and then tuck him in and kiss him goodnight.)

Kylo wiggles his fingers at the console, waits a moment for it to spark to life. “Captain Mitaka,” he intones the moment the visual kicks in. “This is Supreme Leader Ren, acknowledge.”

“Roger, Supreme Leader.”

 “Status report.”

“Wait over,” Mitaka says, glances down to his display. “Bridge is quiet, nothing out of the ordinary.” He squints at something. “The Grand Marshal’s ship landed seventeen minutes ago, sir.”

“Thank you,” Kylo says, heart pounding with anticipation even though his voice remains steady. “I expect I’ll be by the bridge later.”

“Aye, sir,” Mitaka says.

Kylo nods. “I’ll expect to see—”

There’s a small _click_ from the entrance, and Kylo brings down the opacity on the hologram, looks over to where Armitage is standing, orange hair backlit from the light filtering in from the bedroom.

Kylo’s heart stutters in his chest. Armitage is wearing his old general uniform, and he’s smirking.

“—the day’s reports, and anything else of importance,” Kylo continues. “Use your discretion.” He can feel himself smiling through the holocall at Armitage, even though he doesn’t mean to. “In case I don’t make it there tonight, I’ll be by first thing in the morning.”

“I’ll advise alpha shift, sir,” Mitaka agrees.

“Ren out,” Kylo says, waiting only briefly for Mitaka’s response, and then he closes the connection and brings up the lights in the room just slightly so that he can see Armitage a little better. He clears his throat. “So,” he says. “You want to play.”

“If you’re amenable,” Armitage says, voice soft.

“I am,” Kylo says.

Armitage’s smirk widens into a grin.

“Who am I to be, then, General?” Kylo asks, tugging at the belt of his robe to loosen it. He can feel blood shifting to his cock, and he nudges the robe off his left shoulder with the Force as he languidly walks across the room toward Armitage.

“I thought you might be the man I fell in love with,” Armitage says, eyes flicking to Kylo’s bare collarbone, and then drifting downward and staying there. “As you were when we first met, or thereabouts. However you may like to reinterpret it.”

“So you’d outrank me,” Kylo says, realizing.

Armitage’s grin falters a moment, and Kylo takes another step forward, and then kneels in front of him, gazing upward.

“I like it,” Kylo says.

Armitage reaches out, touches Kylo’s face, drags his thumb across the scar. “Good,” he says softly.

“Let me get changed,” Kylo says, getting to his feet and pressing a kiss against Armitage’s cheek. Armitage smells like space, and his skin is cool, and Kylo wants to touch him—but he doesn’t want to delay this any longer than he has to, either. Not when Armitage has brought out his old uniform for this. (Not when this is going to be so _good_ for both of them.)

Kylo’s unused First Order uniform is in the back of his closet. He carefully pulls it free with the Force, watching himself critically in the mirror as he pulls the sash of his robe completely loose, and then shrugs the silk off his body.

His hair is still damp. He finger-combs it back, fastens it into a bun at the nape of his neck. Pulls on standard-issue black socks, but foregoes the briefs. The jodhpurs are tight on his ass, and do little to hide his burgeoning erection, and a thrill goes through him at starting this off with his arousal already blatantly visible to Armitage.  He steps into his boots, uses the Force to tuck his jodhpurs in properly. The fabric of the tunic is rough over his nipples without  an undershirt—but he welcomes the texture, the way his nipples pebble on his chest, the hitch of his breath catching in his chest. The command cap is easy enough to secure on his head, and he uses the Force to make sure that it’s perfectly centered, blinks at himself in the full-length mirror to make sure that everything is correct.

(Armitage will see him soon, looking every inch the new recruit to the Order, ready for whatever knowledge his General will pass down to him.)

He looks _good_ like this.

Kylo brings his hand up to his hair and knocks the command cap with the back of his hand, setting it askew.

Much better.

He can hear Armitage moving around in the other room, can feel Armitage’s anticipation, amplified by Kylo’s own.

Kylo reaches out, opens the door with the Force. Waits.

“Lord Ren?” Armitage’s voice is crisp, professional.

Kylo feels it all down his spine, a shudder of anticipation-arousal that lights up his nerves and sets his skin tingling. He casts his eyes to the floor, breathes carefully while his heart jumps in his chest, and his cock twitches in the confines of his too-tight pants.

The footsteps approach—and then stop. Armitage is toe-to-toe with Kylo.

“Well, well, well,” he says, voice low. “You’ve joined us at last.”

Kylo looks up slowly, dragging his gaze up Armitage’s body, from his boots to his jodhpurs to his general’s tunic, the rank bands stark on his left sleeve. His hair is styled just as it used to be, the length of it coaxed back to the nape of his neck, and his command cap is perched perfectly atop his head. His eyes are flashing with anticipation and desire and the adrenaline high of the victory he’s just achieved, the things he has done for the Order, the glory he has brought back for his Supreme Leader, and Kylo loves him so much for it, wants to bury his face in Armitage’s shoulder, wants to palm his cock and tug Armitage up against him, wants to lave his tongue over every bit of Armitage’s skin, wants to—

Armitage raises an eyebrow, his stern expression belied by the smile that keeps twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Sir,” Kylo says. His voice is low, and it cracks as he speaks. His face twitches, and he looks at the floor again for a moment, heart pounding in his chest, trying to get it under control. This is going to be so fucking _good_ and he wants everything all at once—wants to drag the initial foreplay out forever, wants to tug the clothing from both of them immediately, wants to know everything Armitage has planned for them right now—wants to be kept in the dark—he wants—

—he wants Armitage so much, and looking at the floor is torture. Kylo looks back up, and this time, he can’t fully suppress the smile.

Armitage smiles back. “Commander Ren,” he says. “I’ve been anticipating your arrival for a very long time.” He lingers on  the _r_ ’s, rolling them slightly, luxuriating in his accent, and the effect it has on Kylo.

(Kylo can hardly catch his breath.)

“I regret every delay it took us to get to this moment,” Kylo says, and it’s a sentiment that is true now—and would have been true then, as well, if he’d only understood what they would eventually have. What they have now. Kylo puts his hands behind his back, interlocks his thumbs so that his right palm faces outward, adjusts his feet. “I’m ready for my uniform inspection.”

Armitage grins tightly at him, steps back. Makes a show of looking Kylo up and down, fixating on small details—here, Kylo’s right shoulder, here, Kylo’s belt. He circles around to the back, and Kylo exhales heavily, shifts on his feet a little. Reaches out and listens to the beating of Armitage’s heart, feels the outline of Armitage’s body through the heat that he’s casting from it. The uniform is tight across Kylo’s shoulders, tight across his ass, and Armitage is _looking_ at him, Armitage is _watching_ him, Kylo is—Kylo is _seen_ , and it feels so fucking amazing. His own breathing picks up again, even though Armitage himself is calm, calm, calm.

“Well,” Armitage breathes, walking around Kylo’s left side. “Lord Ren, I understand that this is your first exposure to the uniform regulations of the First Order.”

Kylo can feel Armitage’s breath on the side of his face. It would take hardly any engagement of his muscles to turn his head just slightly, to look back on Armitage’s perfect face, his sharp cheekbones, the glory of his eyelashes—but he blinks and stays looking forward, keeping to his parade rest. “It is,” he says. “Sir.”

“I’m going to offer some suggestions,” Armitage continues, breath whispering over Kylo’s neck, and sending goosebumps down his spine. “Mark my words. You have a long and _illustrious_ future with the Order, Lord Ren. You just need a little guidance.”

“I’m listening,” Kylo breathes.

“Take, for instance,” Armitage says. “Your hat.” He brings his gloved hands up, pinky fingers brushing against Kylo’s face as if by accident. “The command cap is to be centered in the middle of the head, like so.”

(Kylo can see his own reflection in the mirror over Armitage’s shoulder. He looks wide-eyed, but with his face tempered by his scar and his eyes glinting yellow, he does not look like Ben Solo. Not even a little.)

“Thank you, Sir.”

“But this won’t do,” Armitage murmurs. He drags his gloved thumbs over Kylo’s hair, brushing over Kylo’s ears.

Kylo’s knees go weak, and he steadies himself with the Force. “Sir?”

“Your hair is pulled back appropriately, but it should be done _behind_ your ears.” He slips his gloved thumbs under Kylo’s hair, runs them along the shells of Kylo’s ears. He leans in, mouth right next to Kylo’s ear. “I trust you’ll remember this for next time.” His breath is hot, and his gloved fingers are warm as they trace the edge of Kylo’s ears.

The noise that comes out of Kylo is—not entirely voluntary, and more high-pitched than Kylo would like. Armitage chuckles, right next to his ear, and then nips Kylo’s lobe with his teeth, and Kylo shudders, canting his hips toward Armitage before remembering himself.

Armitage’s gloved hand is on Kylo’s belt buckle, grasping it firmly.

It’s not what Kylo wants Armitage to grab.

His cock is aching, pressed up tight against his jodhpurs. He presses his hands tighter together behind his back, breathes in short, sharp breaths, tries to—

“Your belt is to be worn on your natural waist,” Armitage says, shifting the belt higher, repositioning it until he’s happy with it, and then tightening it slightly before finally patting the buckle. “The tunic will sit better this way.”

“Thank you for the guidance, General,” Kylo says.

Armitage blinks, and then straightens. “I’m glad you take direction well,” he says. He lets go of the belt, brings his gloved hands up to the collar of Kylo’s jacket, tugs on it sharply. “Your posture,” he continues, “needs some correction.” He plants one hand in the middle of Kylo’s chest, applies gentle pressure with his fingers. “Come now,” he says. “Back up for me. Heels should be touching the wall.”

Kylo obediently shuffles back, plants his heels where he’s told. Hopes that the precome dampening his cock hasn’t soaked through his jodhpurs—he probably should have worn underwear, but it’s too late for that now, and underwear wouldn’t have done anything to contain his erection anyways, there’s nothing that could—

“Now your hips,” Armitage says, gloved hands flattening on Kylo’s hips, adjusting his posture. He tightens his right hand on Kylo’s waist, drags his left hand up Kylo’s tunic to his shoulder. “Shoulders back,” he says, leaning heavily against Kylo without touching him any of the places that Kylo wants touched.

(Kylo is panting for it—the agony of having to wait, the anticipation of knowing he’s going to get it, the perfect bittersweetness of having everything go perfectly—but the second time around, and not the first.)

“Head back,” Armitage says, and he goes up on his tiptoes, presses his forehead against Kylo’s.

“Like this?” Kylo asks. He’s hyper-conscious of his body, of how he looks, of the appreciative way Armitage is staring at him.

“Exactly like this,” Armitage breathes. “Good.” He plants both his hands on Kylo’s shoulders, drags them down Kylo’s chest. “You must spend a lot of time training, Lord Ren.”

“I do,” Kylo agrees. “Spend a lot of time. Yes. The gym.”

Armitage smiles, warm and welcoming. “You’ll find,” he says, “that your efforts will not go...unnoticed.” He slides his hand down to Kylo’s crotch even as he leans in closer, whispers in Kylo’s ear. “The First Order appreciates... _oh_.”

Kylo whimpers. Armitage’s gloved hand is right over his cock, groping Kylo’s erection, and it’s all Kylo can do to keep his hips pressed back against the wall when all he wants to do is rut into Armitage’s palm. Armitage’s hand is deft and elegant, and he strokes his gloved fingers along Kylo’s length, traces the head of Kylo’s cock, and all the while Kylo pants and squeezes his eyes shut and tries his best not to move from the position in which Armitage has placed him.

“Open your eyes,” Armitage says. “Look at me, Lord Ren.”

Kylo does, bites his lip so that he doesn’t immediately come into Armitage’s hand. Armitage’s gaze is steady, the colour high on his face, his command cap still perfect, his hand rubbing firmly against Kylo’s cock.

“I’ll come,” Kylo gasps, finally. “Armitage—pause—”

Armitage immediately takes his hand away, and Kylo’s cock throbs, his breath hitching in his chest. He aches with it—but he hasn’t come, not yet.

Armitage brings his hand in closer to Kylo’s face. Kylo turns his head on impulse—and then stops when he catches the glint of wetness on Armitage’s gloved fingers.

“Sorry,” Kylo breathes.

“Sorry?” Armitage asks, still maintaining full eye contact with Kylo.

“I made a mess,” Kylo says. “Your, er, glove.”

Armitage turns his head slightly, looks at his glove—and his eyes dilate, eyelashes fluttering as he inhales sharply. “Oh,” he says. He looks down at Kylo’s visible erection. “Lord _Ren_.”

“I’ll clean them for you,” Kylo offers. “My mouth, General, let me—”

“Of course,” Armitage says. He brings his fingers to Kylo’s mouth, lets Kylo suck them between his lips.

The taste of his own precome is stronger than Kylo had anticipated, and he sucks at Armitage’s fingers until the sweetness starts to fade. He extends his tongue, draws it between Armitage’s fingers. Presses forward until Armitage’s fingertips are at the back of his throat, and his tongue is lapping at Armitage’s gloved palm. Armitage’s eyes are dark, and his thumb strokes Kylo’s cheek encouragingly as Kylo licks at the gloves, sucks at them, removes all traces of himself until all he can taste is leather.

“There,” Kylo says. “Is that better, General?”

Armitage shakes his head a little, turns his hand palm-up, rubs his thumb against his fingers. “You’ve done a very thorough job,” he says. “And I’m pleased with your acquiescence to the First Order’s uniform regulations.” He’s still standing so terribly close to Kylo. “Now,” he says, his voice regaining some of that prior crispness. “This is normally the point where I would escort you to the bridge.”

Kylo swallows.

“Considering your current state, I can’t take you there,” Armitage says, and his voice is understanding, and kind. “It’s against regulation.”

Kylo looks down, and his face immediately starts burning, his heart pounding faster. His cock is straining against his jodhpurs, the tunic entirely too short to cover it—and even if the tunic did cover it, his cock is still leaking into the fabric, and it’s smeared where Armitage had been caressing him. “I’m…”

“Knowing how these pants fit on you,” Armitage breathes, “you’ll need to be looked after before going to the bridge.” He hitches his own pants up at the thighs, kneels gracefully down between Kylo’s legs. Looks up at him, the command cap casting a shadow over the bridge of his nose. “Allow me to demonstrate what needs to be done?”

“Show me,” Kylo breathes. “Show me how I should take care of myself. Show me what you can do for me, General.” He flattens his hands against the wall. “Please,” he adds, voice cracking. “Armi—General. Please, General.”

Armitage’s gloved hands are quick and light on the closure of Kylo’s jodhpurs. He undoes the clasp, peels back the fabric—and then sits back on his heels, visibly swallows. “No underwear,” he breathes.

“I was raised—oh, hell,” Kylo says, breathing heavily, “as Republic filth, I need—to be taught—”

Armitage exhales, looks up at Kylo, eyes fanatical and face flushed. “You’ve come to the right place.” The slight aspiration on the word _come_ is so sensual _,_ and Kylo shivers.

“I’m exactly where I need to be,” Kylo agrees.

Armitage reaches forward, draws Kylo’s cock out of his pants, curls his fingers lightly around it and then uses his other hand to reach further in and cradle Kylo’s balls. “There’s just so much of you,” he says softly.

Kylo whines, bites his lip. It might be easier to handle this if he were staring at the ceiling—but he can’t take his eyes away from Armitage, can’t stop watching the reverent way Armitage is touching him, stroking his gloved hand along the length of Kylo’s cock, mouth slightly open, tongue just barely visible.

“This kind of maintenance should be done regularly,” Armitage says, voice starting to go a bit breathless. He shifts his position a little, sighs. “You can come to me for the things you need. I’ll make time in my schedule for this—for you—Lord Ren—”

Kylo shudders. It feels like his entire body is humming with energy under Armitage’s elegant gloved hands, his sure and steady grip the only thing keeping Kylo grounded. “Every day,” he gasps. “I’ll come every day, I’ll let you—please, show me how—to be—I want—make me proper—” He closes his eyes for a moment, just to center himself—and then he feels a warm exhalation right on the head of his cock, and he opens his eyes, looks down.

He watches while Armitage opens his mouth and takes the head of Kylo’s cock inside, tongue pressing against Kylo’s frenulum.

“Fuck,” Kylo blurts. “General—I—”

Armitage swallows, sucks Kylo’s cock in deeper, shifts his hand from the base of Kylo’s cock back to his balls.

Kylo gasps, slams his hand back against the wall. “Fuck, I—General, General!—”

Armitage pulls off, drool briefly connecting the head of Kylo’s cock and Armitage’s plush lower lip before the string breaks, a droplet rolling down Armitage’s chin. “Do you like it,” he says roughly. “Do you like it when I suck your cock?”

“Please,” Kylo whispers. “Please—” He sees the movement of Armitage’s shoulder out of his peripheral vision, shifts his gaze just slightly—and realizes that Armitage’s other hand is down his own pants, masturbating his own cock. “Do you want to...take your cock out?” Kylo asks breathlessly. “And show me how it’s done? Show me how you do it, I’ll pay such good attention—”

Armitage is just as quick with the clasp on his own jodhpurs as he was with Kylo’s, presses his underwear down and lets his chubby cock thrust out into the open. His glove is slick with his own precome, and the look on his face as he strokes himself and takes Kylo’s cock back into his mouth is sheer ecstasy, and it’s all Kylo can do not to come right there.

“I don’t have long,” he manages. “Not if you—oh, fucking hell, General, fuck, Sir—”

Armitage presses up behind Kylo’s balls with his gloved hand, swallows hard and then does something with his throat that gets Kylo literal inches deeper than he was mere moments ago. The sound of him wanking himself off is slick, the speed of it picking up ever so slightly.

“General, I—I can’t hold out, General—”

Armitage looks up at him, and his eyes are wide and wet, his face pink, his mouth slick with spit and Kylo’s precome. He raises his eyebrows, takes his eyes off his own cock just long enough to tap sharply on the floor, and Kylo reaches for him with the Force, presses, just barely, inside.

_come for me come all over my face kylo i want it on me so badly cover me kylo come for me let me make you come kylo i want it i want it so badly kylo i want_

The intensity of it almost brings Kylo to his knees. He gasps, clenches his hands into fists. “Do you want,” he manages, “me to s-show you what I’ve—learned, General?”

“Yes,” Armitage says, and he tightens his gloved hand on Kylo’s cock, speeds up his strokes, twisting his hand on the upstroke, and that’s—

—all Kylo needs. “Sir!” he cries—and then everything dissolves into waves of pleasure, wrung out of him by Armitage’s gloved hand, a flurry of sensations throughout his entire body, relief and release and _love_ , knowing that he’s wanted, knowing they’re okay, knowing they have their entire lives ahead of them.

Armitage’s other hand massages Kylo’s balls while he comes, cock painting thick white stripes of ejaculate over Armitage’s face at the careful guidance of his gloved hands. Kylo shudders, braces himself with one hand on Armitage’s shoulder—and watches as Armitage brings himself off with a few short strokes, coming over his glove with a sigh.

“Fuck,” Kylo groans when the most intense waves of it subside, and he’s left with the aftershocks, rippling through his body. “Fuck, General, I...wow.”

Armitage nuzzles Kylo’s softening cock against his wet face. “You’ve done so well.”

Kylo kneels, pulls Armitage in close to him, and kisses him deeply.

Kylo tugs his own gloves off with the Force, reaches down to wrap his bare hand around Armitage’s, to drag his fingers through Armitage’s spend. He presses his lips to Armitage’s wet cheek.

“...I came on your hat,” Kylo says.

“Oh,” Armitage murmurs. There’s a droplet of come on his eyelashes, and Kylo carefully rubs it away. “I’m sure I’m a proper mess.”

Kylo licks Armitage’s cheek, grins at him. “As my commanding officer, I feel duty-bound to inform you that I’ve made a decision.”

Armitage looks up from reaching into his own jacket, raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I’ve decided to commit myself to a lifetime of service to the First Order,” Kylo says seriously. He reaches for the handkerchief Armitage is holding in his hand. “May I?”

Armitage nods, closes his eyes, lets Kylo clean off his face. “I’m glad to hear that,” he says, eyes still closed. “Who knows where you and I may be a few years from now.”

“Together, I hope,” Kylo says, carefully dabbing at Armitage’s hairline.

“You’ll make a fine Supreme Leader,” Armitage says, opening his eyes and gazing steadily into Kylo’s own. “You _make_ a fine Supreme Leader.”

“I love you, Grand Marshal,” Kylo says.

“I love you too, Kylo,” Armitage responds. He leans in, kisses Kylo. “That was perfect,” he adds. “Thank you for indulging me.”

“Always.”

**Seven Weeks Later**

Five X-wings left, and Kylo is marking them as he screams through the atmosphere in his Silencer and reverses the thrusters, relying on the Force to keep him conscious as he pulls the Silencer around in an impossibly tight trajectory, thumbs off a series of shots as he comes out of it.

Two of the X-wings drop out of atmo, start heading for the planet’s surface to attempt emergency landings, and Kylo lets them go, knowing that Phasma’s ground troopers will do what they need to do. Three X-wings left, and he chases after them at full throttle, pulling all power from his shields to the thrusters, relying on the Force to roll the Silencer when he needs to dodge incoming fire.

(He feels his stomach roiling, and he suppresses that with the Force too, keeps his eyes locked on the ships spiraling in front of him. A quick burst of shots—one-two-three—and the battered red X-Wing starts smoking, peels off to head for the planet—explodes before it gets there.)

No time for smiling—there’s one left and then he can join the fray down below, which he is absolutely itching to do, because he wants everyone on the ground to be terrified of the Order, of the things they are capable of, the things they are doing, the terror they are sowing and reaping and—

—there. The X-Wing ceases evasive maneuvers for a brief moment, and it’s enough for Kylo to fire off a quick round of shots. They’re off, but he’s using the Force to guide them so that they hit—

—and he needs to quickly take evasive action himself, the Force screaming in his brain _STARBOARD STARBOARD MOVE MOVE MOVE_ and the Silencer yaws to the side, rotating over itself as a series of shots fire over it, and all Kylo sees is a black X-Wing screaming off in one direction, and the tail end of the X-Wing he’d been chasing disappearing in the other.

“Phasma, acknowledge,” he growls.

She’s out of range.

Kylo curves the Silencer around in a wide fast arc, pushing his consciousness out in front of him, scanning with the Force—but there’s too much chatter from the planetary surface for him to be able to pick the pilot of the black ship out. He swoops down into atmo, chasing the ships to the surface. Fog, for a moment—thick clouds, red-tinged, shot through with an eerie green light that sends shivers down Kylo’s back. If it were Kylo, he’d hide here, in the shadows, relying on his instruments—but there aren’t any other life forms up here, and the Resistance is lacking in creativity, so they’ve likely retreated back to base. As though Kylo won’t hunt them down like the rodents they are.

He drops the Silencer down past the cloud cover, pushing the engines to make them scream so they know he’s coming.

The planetary surface is rough, rocky, marked by pillars of craggy black stone, the occasional mesa, and chasms between. Challenging to fly for other pilots, but not for Kylo, and he moves the Silencer into a tight roll as he shoots over the surface, blanketing the area with the Force so that he can pick out—there, Phasma and her troopers. They’re pinned back against a chasm, fighting back a messy group of Resistance fighters.

Kylo curves the Silencer around, a long, lazy loop to give the troopers a moment to pull back—and pull back they have, so Kylo comes in close, fires a series of quick bursts right into the Resistance fighters, halving their numbers. He grins as the troopers immediately advance to close the distance and regain the ground they’d lost.

He takes another pass of the area, searching with his scanners and the Force both. The other ship he’d been chasing has landed, albeit poorly, on one of the wider mesas, so Kylo sends off a carefully placed shot, blows it up as he passes—but he cannot see or sense the black X-Wing. He pulls the Silencer around again, finds a narrow place, partially protected by a mountain. Lands the Silencer in a move that shouldn’t technically be possible, but requires very little of his concentration. He powers the machine down quickly, spares a moment to brush his finger against the holo of Armitage that is always displayed when he’s flying, and then pops the hatch, leaps down to the ground, cape fluttering around him. The air on Moraband is sulfuric and ashy, and it burns his lungs when he inhales. It feels cleansing. It feels _right_.

He pulls his hood up, disguising his face, glances up at the Finalizer as he does it. She’s beautiful like this—hovering there, waiting for him to come home, waiting for all of them to come back to their nest so she can keep them safe. Kylo salutes her, and then walks to the edge of the rock he’s landed on, plucking his lightsaber from his belt as he does.

“ _Submit to me,_ ” he says, amplifying his voice so the sound ripples in front of him like a tidal wave. “ _Surrender now, or face my wrath._ ”

A cheer comes up from the troopers below, and they press forward more aggressively—but, charmingly, the Resistance don’t retreat. Kylo grins, takes a few steps back, and then lopes up the edge of the cliff in an easy run, leaps from the edge, and lets the Force carry him into the fray below. He lands heavily, deliberately, dust rippling up around him. Ignites his saber while black dust still swirls around him, tugs his hood forward just a little more, and paces slowly toward the fight. Reaches for everything he has—anger and rage, impatience, a burning desire to wipe the face of the planet clean of Resistance scum. He images the way Starkiller will look when they fire it for the first time, the simulations they’ve watched of five perfect beams lancing out from the surface of the planet Armitage has hollowed out and repurposed. Visualizes himself as that planet, with everything necessary skinned away from his body, hollowed out and re-engineered by his lover’s hand to be a thing of purpose, of fury, of power.

They’ve seen him now, coming up from behind. A handful of particularly stupid fighters are aiming their blasters at him, as though he can be shot. As though he can be taken down in the same way as any other fighter. As though the Force won’t protect him. Kylo curls the fingers of his left hand into a claw, and unleashes the lightning. Five perfect beams, crackling and sizzling from the tips of his fingers, hitting the fighters and felling them where they stand, their corpses smoking and burnt and cleansed, finally, of the faults that cause them to resist the inevitable.

“ _Legions are nothing before me_ ,” Kylo intones, his voice still amplified and thick with the promise of the slow death and complete destruction that will come if they do not yield. The air is thick with the smell of burnt flesh and blaster fire. “ _Your paltry weapons will not help you here. Your comrades can not prevent your death. The First Order will eliminate all resistance._ ”

Some idiot yells something out from the right—something about refusing to surrender, as though he has a choice in the matter. Kylo grins, flings his ignited saber to the right, even as he raises both hands, lets lightning crackle from both. Fighters rush him from his left, and he holds out his hand in a clawed grip, pulls the air from their lungs even as he calls his saber back to his right hand, spins it loosely as he stalks toward the fighters he has suspended above the ground, their legs kicking, boots scrabbling against the ground as they try to gain purchase.

(His foot hits a trooper helmet, and it scrapes across the stone. Kylo looks down, expecting to see a decapitated head inside the helmet, gore spattered across the white plastoid—but the helmet is empty, pristine but for three smears of blood on the left temple.)

“You separated from your comrades,” Kylo notes quietly, moving the empty helmet aside and continuing to approach. “The five of you. That was a terrible tactical decision. You should be ashamed of your choices, and the paltry training the Resistance has given you.” He hoists them a little higher with the Force, wielding it exactly as he wants, no whims to be subjected to other than his own. It’s a new understanding of his relationship with the Force, and he is far better for it, even if the ragtag soldiers in front of him will never see it the way he does.

The crackle of electroshock batons is suddenly audible on his right. He reaches out with the Force, and touches the comforting blurred hum of troopers. Looks over—and there they are, broken through the line, and systematically eliminating the rest of the Resistance fighters. Phasma’s silver armor glints in the back of the row, her arm extended as she barks orders at them, and Kylo smiles, turns off his saber, starts pacing toward his captives.

“It’s just us now,” he says to the five fighters still struggling to breathe in front of him. “And some of you are going to go back to your people, and some of you aren’t.” He twitches his hand, watches the fighter on the right drop. “Well,” he amends, still smiling. “Really, I just need some of you.” Twitches his hand again, drops the fighter on the left. “Maybe two.” Twitches his hand again, drops two of the remaining fighters. There’s just one left now—and their hands are up at their neck, struggling to loosen his Force-grip, feet kicking against nothing, body writhing. “One will suffice.”

A ship screams overhead—and Kylo looks up as the black X-Wing tears across the sky again, close to the ground—and Kylo clenches his fist, lets the last fighter drop, extends both hands out at the X-Wing and just _pulls_.

The engines of the X-Wing roar, vibrate, exhaust slowly turning black—but it slows, guns spitting out laser fire that doesn’t actually go anywhere. Kylo digs his heels into the ground and screams, pulls even harder with the Force. There is a pause, when everything is completely still—and then the ship wavers in the air and then starts to yield, pulled steadily by Kylo down to the ground.

Kylo’s ears are ringing and his hands are numb when the ship finally makes contact with the surface of the planet, engines whining and smoking. The BB unit mounted in the back of the ship is squealing audibly and the hatch pops open immediately, smoke billowing out from inside.

“ _Show yourself_ ,” Kylo orders, his voice booming across the stone.

(His tongue is thick, and his mouth tastes like copper.)

A white scrap of fabric is briefly waved into the air before the pilot climbs unsteadily out of his cockpit, half-climbs, half-falls out onto the ground before hauling himself to his feet. He yanks off his helmet, braces himself on the side of his ship like it’s casual, like he’s not relying on the ship to stand.

Kylo looks at him.

Kylo _recognizes_ him.

It’s a personal insult, and it burns through his blood. That the pilot—that Dameron—should have the audacity to fly like that, to white cape in here thinking that he can change anything about the outcome of this fight, to fly even vaguely in the vicinity of his Silencer, like Dameron is going to shoot at it with his shitty pretentious painted ship, try to take away a gift that Armitage gave Kylo—

( _You deserve this_ , Armitage had said, flushed and well-fucked, his black silk robe slipping off his shoulder, the schematics for the Silencer floating above them in full 3D. _I’ve been working with the engineering team. They’re giving you everything they’ve got._ )

Kylo swallows a mouthful of blood, widens his stance. Draws his saber again, lights it, spins it casually at his side. If he takes a step forward, he might collapse, but the hum and crackle of his saber is grounding, so he focuses on that.

“Who talks first,” the pilot calls across the distance between them. “You talk first? I talk first?”

“No talking,” Kylo snarls. “Only listening.”

“That’s hardly fair,” the pilot says. “Come on, this should at least be fifty fifty.”

“I know who you are,” Kylo intones.

“See, that’s not fair again,” the pilot responds. “You’re all—” He gestures to his face.

And that, that on top of everything—that stings, that Dameron has no idea who he is, what he’s done, what he’s going to do. That he’ll report everything as though it was the actions of some anonymous Force user, instead of being the actions of the child they lost, the one that should have been everything the one that Dameron, now, is attempting to be a piss-poor imitation of—and this will not stand.

Kylo tilts his head. “Don’t you recognize me?” He hooks his saber on his belt, brings both hands up to his hood. “You should recognize me, Dameron.” He pulls his hood down, lets it settle around his shoulder, and watches as the pilot’s face blanches, and then crumbles. “Here I am,” he says in a sing-song voice. “Do you know me now, hotshot?” He reaches out with the Force, manifests a slight pressure around Poe’s throat, the scent and sound of electricity, the echo of someone else’s screams. “I could make you admit it.”

Dameron shakes his head, face going pale and eyes wide, mouth opening and closing even though there aren’t any words coming out. His BB-unit whines. “You _died_ ,” he manages, finally. “I went looking for you, I kept looking for you, I never gave up—”

“That was sentimental of you,” Kylo says.

“ _You_ were sentimental,” Poe snaps. “Your eyes were…”

Kylo grins. The dried blood on his face cracks. He knows exactly how he looks now.

He looks like Kylo Ren.

He looks exactly like himself.

“Look how far I’ve come,” he taunts. “Look what I’m able to do. Do you feel me now, in your head?” He reaches up, taps his own forehead. “Right here. That headache you’re feeling behind your eyes. That’s me. I can take everything I want right now. I can take the location of your base. I can take your memories of your family. I can take everything you’ve ever loved.”

“The Resistance—will not be intimidated—by you.” Poe’s hand twitches at his side, and Kylo feels his desire to bring it up to his throat, loosen his collar—and his stubborn refusal to do so, because he knows that it won’t help. But he wants to do it anyway.

_Knock knock_ , Kylo thinks—and then he enters anyway, inserts his consciousness right into the forefront of Poe’s mind. Poe is in agony. He is obsessing over the person he thought Kylo was, and he’s completely unable to reconcile it with the person Kylo is. He is mentally screaming a name that never belonged to Kylo.

_Call me by_ my _name_ , Kylo thinks.

_no_

Kylo wraps Force-fingers around Poe’s heart and squeezes. _Call me by my name, flyboy._

_stop it, B—_

Poe’s heart is pounding in his chest. He sags against the side of his ship, his vision greying out. He’s gasping for breath, but there’s nothing coming. He glances over at Kylo—and Kylo sees himself through Poe’s eyes. Larger than life, his scar splitting his face in half, his eyes burning yellow, and a scent of sulfur and lightning surrounding him. Kylo tightens his fingers around Poe’s heart, and _squeezes._

Poe screams, and Kylo pulls out of his head, tilts his head and watches the pilot sink to his knees, panting.

Kylo grins. “Next time, you’ll address me properly.” He can still taste blood in his mouth. He tightens the Force-grip around Poe’s throat again, watches him sputter and struggle. “And if the Resistance isn’t afraid yet,” he muses, “it should be. There are no restrictions on me now. There’s no one to reel me in. There’s no one to force me to be someone that I’m not.”

“We are—” Poe starts—and then he stops, coughs, tugs at his own throat. “We are the spar—”

“I’m going to let you live, you know,” Kylo says, loosening his grip on Poe’s throat, watching Poe collapse on the ground, gasping for breath. “You can bear witness. The weight of who I am. The weight of what I’ve done. You can go back to them. Tell them. Tell them that you saw me.”

*

Armitage is not used to battles like this, the ones that have a beginning and an end. He’s used to an endless drag of casualties, empty plates and a handful of protein pills, the hallways of the star destroyers getting less crowded after each attack.

Now he looks out of the viewport and says, “It’s over.”

Just like that.

He leaves the bridge: it’s safe to do it. There will be no alarms, no call for backup, no emergency supply runs. He feels like he’s floating. Like there’s no gravity. The security protocol drilled into him kicks in: don’t get high on victory. Look at the next challenge. Prepare. Plan. You can lose anything within a blink.

It took seconds for a single X-wing to fire the blast that tore the Death Star apart. His father thought it was a freak accident. Then the Rebels did it again. 

_You are always a blink away from catastrophe._

_Close your eyes, and when you open them again, you’ll see a foreign land. You won’t recognise the galaxy where you used to live. The stars will be far away and dim_.

Armitage curls his fingers into a fist. He could reach for them, those stars that seemed so distant.

The battle is won.

“The battle is won,” he whispers to himself as he marches to the train blindly. He needs to taste those words, learn their texture, recognize their scent. He’ll want to taste them again.

He only realises where he’s headed once the train stops by hangar 06. He disembarks, his white cape flaring up behind him. He looks at the vacuum of space beyond the magnetic containment shield, starts walking towards it, slow at first, then breaking into a sprint.

_The battle is won._

_You won, Kylo._

He can’t remember the last time he ran with _abandon_ , when it wasn’t about getting to safety, but rushing to greet it, his asylum, someone to take shelter in. Kylo will land at bay 02. Armitage runs past it, gets to the shield, puts his palm over it; a blue ripple washes through the surface. He cranes his neck to spot the Silencer. His father would scold him for such reckless behaviour; his superiors would advise him not to display excitement; there’s his present reputation to consider, too.

_Just let me have this_ , he thinks as he goes to his tiptoes. _Just for a blink, just for a minute, let me fucking enjoy something_.

The Silencer emerges, shooting through the darkness. Armitage steps back, drops his hand. Tries to compose himself, but his face aches, he’s smiling, he can’t help it, and—he doesn’t have to hide it, really. Not when the hangar’s crew start cheering; not when Kylo’s personal convoy hail him, fist raised, screaming his name.

_All hail Supreme Leader Ren! All hail the New Empire! Glory to the First Order!_

Armitage runs his fingers through his hair, combed into an elegant swoop in anticipation of this exact moment. It got a tad disheveled in the battle’s frenzy, but Kylo likes it like this. Armitage walks to the docking bay calmly, like his earlier rush never happened, although he suspects his face must be somewhat flushed. The convoy salutes him; he steals Kylo’s thunder, who jumps out of the cockpit, lands softly like a cat.

They lock gazes as Kylo straightens up. Armitage realises he’s panting, slightly, he’s out of shape, but his place is here, commanding the bridge, making plans, not letting his mind go to waste in a trench, his place is—here, where he wants it to be, wherever the kriff he wants to be—

Right here, right here.

“Congratulations for a well-earned victory, Supreme Leader,” he says.

“Leave us,” Kylo grunts.

His convoy, the hangar crew, even the pilots just returning from Moraband turn on their heel immediately.

_Show-off_ , Armitage thinks at him, embarrassingly impressed by the power of his command. It never fails to sway him, and Kylo fucking knows it. He steps closer: he smells of musk, sweat, death. His yellow-red eyes don’t see anything but Armitage; he can feel Kylo’s world narrow down to him, like a holocamera finding its focus. The man with the promise of a galaxy looks at him, _keeps looking at him_ like he is the only thing that has ever existed.

“Proud?” Kylo asks.

“Yes,” Armitage breathes. “Very.”

The hangar’s durasteel door slides close with a deep _thud_ that sounds _final_ , sounds _significant_. Armitage parts his lips, but finds himself at a lack of words, which is—not like him, but how could he describe this: not the possibilities, but the _lack_ of disastrous outcomes, that glorious void that never existed before, but—

The New Republic had bowed. Senator Vicly had agreed to their terms. The outrage that followed will be wiped away with the Resistance fleet. More planets swear allegiance every day. Every hour. Every blink.

He sinks to his knees. He wants to say _thank you_ , but how can he speak when he doesn’t have the language to describe how freedom feels? So he demonstrates: he leans forward, and—shameless, unabashed—rubs his face over Kylo’s crotch, like he wanted to do years ago.

“What the hell, kitten,” Kylo says, impressed. Armitage begins to pull back, but Kylo gets a fistful of his hair, guides him close. Armitage inhales his scent with relief, welcomes the heat; gives a little lick in greeting, even though he’s sure Kylo can’t feel it through the thick leather of his trousers.

“You haven’t even heard the best of it,” Kylo says, starts caressing his hair. Armitage hums, thoughtful, then pokes Kylo with his nose when he neglects to elaborate. “Shit,” Kylo hisses, grinding his cock over Armitage’s face, the leather getting taut over his swelling erection. Armitage licks at him again, looks up to meet his eyes.

“Well?”

Kylo’s grip tightens in his hair. He looks like a man possessed.

“The secret is out,” he whispers.

Armitage narrows his eyes at him; his grin is a slow, wicked thing. “So the Jedikiller is no longer covering his tracks,” he muses, reaches for the clasps of Kylo’s trousers. Kylo grabs  his wrists with the Force.

“Not here,” he says.

“I don’t mind.”

“No, I—want you like—”

“Yes?”

Kylo whimpers, his hips bucking forward. Armitage rubs a cheek over the outline of his cock, inquisitive, then looks up at him with the bright-eyed curiosity he knows Kylo can never resist.

“I want you like I used to want you,” he says, voice broken. “When I—first got here, a little after that. When I longed—ached _—_ and I could never—”

“You could’ve,” Armitage confesses. “That night in the hangar. This hangar. The anniversary of the massacre. You got yourself your grandfather’s mask like a trophy. I was here with a BB-unit.”

“Yeah?” Kylo tugs at his hair.

“That night,” Armitage says, “if you’ve asked, I’d have gone to your bedroom. Let you ravish me. Choked on your cock for you. Rode you. Rimmed you. Whatever you asked me to do, I’d have done it gladly. I would’ve let you fuck me right here. That’s how much I wanted you, and I didn’t even know _who_ were you. If you told me what you just told the Resistance—hells know what I—”

Kylo tugs at his hair again, harsher. Makes Armitage look at him, tear his gaze away from his thick cock.

“My name is Kylo Ren,” he says. “I’m the Jedikiller. I am B-E-N. That name is no longer relevant. My origins don’t define me. My actions do. What have I done, General Armitage?”

Armitage closes his eyes. “You killed them all, my Lord.”

* 

The bed nearly breaks as Kylo penetrates him. Not their kingly bed: the bunk of some unfortunate petty officer who deserves better than their commanding officers fucking in their room, but who is at the disadvantage of having quarters similar to the ones Kylo used to have.

The walls are soundproof, so Armitage cries out, trembling on all fours as Kylo thrusts into him from behind. He gasps and sinks to his elbows, his dogtags clinking in-sync with the sharp jabs of Kylo’s hips, the slap of skin on skin. He’s naked entirely, but Kylo is still clothed; the brush of his tunic is a reminder of the humiliation Armitage used to crave.

Kylo is a good actor: he fucks like a virgin trying to impress, too fast and entirely too eager, grabbing two fistfuls of Armitage’s arse to spread him wider. Still, he’s _Lord Ren_ , the masked figure Armitage fell for—revealed to be a keen young man.

“Harder,” Armitage gasps, clenches around Kylo’s cock, who slides into him with a perfect twist that betrays his recent expertise; then it’s back to sloppy sex again, Kylo’s balls slapping against Armitage’s.

“Wanna see your face when you come,” Kylo says, making Armitage break character and scoff.

“I won’t come from three minutes of pounding, thank you very much, unlike certain celibate Knights were prone to do.”

“Shut up,” Kylo bites back, voice bubbling with laughter. He pulls out, reaches under Armitage’s belly to manhandle him to his back, making him gasp— _that_ move would’ve impressed him, and the way Kylo arranges him on the mattress, legs spread and pulled up to his chest. He makes a show of missing Armitage’s hole, then thrusts inside all at once. Armitage screams, grabbing Kylo’s shoulders, his fingers digging into flesh.

“You like that?” Kylo murmurs, and does it again—pulls out entirely, then all but _stabs him_ , gets his hole full with cock, and when Armitage feels close to bursting, he takes it away.

“Oh you little—” Armitage mumbles, but keeps clinging to him, clawing at his back.

“Deeper,” Kylo says. Armitage arches an eyebrow and runs his nails down Kylo’s back, breaking skin, letting the marks be red and puffy. Kylo moans and gets closer, chest flush with Armitage’s as he sinks into him, circling his hips.

“You’re so tight,” he whispers into Armitage’s shoulder, reaches down and takes his cock out by hand. Armitage gasps as Kylo guides the tip to Armitage’s wet hole, barely dipping in, just nudging at it—testing out how sex feels. Armitage looks up at him and sees Kylo with wet hair—fresh from the hotsprings, back at the observatory, fumbling to put his cock inside him. Armitage remembers lying on that narrow bed, thighs open, breath baited as he watched Kylo push inside for the first time.

“It’s cute,” he says, “how you never got over that—that my arse feels like any other arse would feel in the galaxy—”

“It had to be you,” Kylo blurts.

Armitage claws at his back again. “Is that meant to be romantic?”

“I wouldn’t have broken my vows for anyone but you.” Kylo looks down at him, taking him in; Armitage can only imagine how he looks, completely overtaken from a bit of fumbling, flushed down to his hollow chest, his cock smearing precome over his soft stomach; but he knows Kylo thinks it’s the prettiest thing to behold.

“If it was that night,” Armitage asks, “the night in the hangar—and we haven’t had that whole bit on Jakku yet, the conversations, whatever—if I just dropped down to my knees and—or be more civil, _ask—_ would you have…? You wouldn’t have broken that vow, would you? It was luck and circumstance, you were so—indoctrinated—”

The rest is lost to a moan as Kylo impales him on his cock. Armitage feels every inch; tries to clench around it, but _can’t_ , he can’t move once Kylo has bottomed out, the girth is—kriffing impossible, makes it feel like Kylo is everywhere, filling him up, sealing him up, and he’s—stuck on his fucking monster cock forever, but he wouldn’t—actually mind that—

“I wanted to fuck you before I let myself know what _want_ was,” Kylo whispers, breath hot over Armitage’s lips. His hair falls forward, silken, heavy. “Your _voice_ was enough to drive me crazy. Have I ever told you how I soiled my sheets? How it started _then_ , started with nothing but your _words_? Choose the right ones and I’d have served you forever. You would’ve liked that, yeah? Coming back home from a grueling shift to find your loyal Knight spread out in your bed already, waiting oh-so-patiently, my big-big cock so hard for you.”

“Fuck, Kylo—”

“Come home and just sit on my prick, claim it—”

Armitage whimpers, squirms. Kylo remains still, watches him intently, eyes burning in the low light.

“Move,” Armitage hisses.

Kylo tilts his head. “The safe word is ‘stop not moving.’”

“ _Move_.”

“Why? My dick is yours. Fuck yourself with it.”

Armitage’s cock pulses, and for a second he thinks _this is it_ , feels his toes curl—but he’s not coming, not yet, so he begins working himself looser on Kylo’s dick, milking him for come, not looking away for a second. Kylo watches him with a smug satisfaction and something unnamable, something like awe.

“Please, I’m—close, please—”

“What do you need?”

“Hold me.”

Kylo curls around him, his hard stomach sliding over Armitage’s cock, and that does it: he comes with a wet gasp, eyes squeezed shut, his whole body taut and—

“Would you be my co-Supreme Leader, if I asked?” Kylo says.

Armitage’s eyes fly open.

“Wh—whaa—” he manages, his orgasm racing through him, his heart thudding in his throat—

“You should consider it,” Kylo urges, giving an encouraging little thrust with his hips.

“Kylo, I’m _literally—_ ”

“You’re so beautiful when you come,” Kylo says, picks up the pace. “So fierce.”

“If you think that makes me qualified—”

“So qualified.”

Armitage whines as Kylo fucks him deeper into the mattress, devoted, relentless. His weight is crushing him, his scent is overwhelming, he occupies all his senses as his cock hits Armitage’s oversensitive prostate.

“Sod off—!” Armitage cries out.

Kylo answers with a grunt. Armitage feels the hot, sticky release of his come, but Kylo doesn’t pull out. He clings to Armitage; he loves to do this, go soft inside him, stay like that for as long as possible, and Armitage is ready to admit he’s glad to be the Supreme Leader’s personal cockwarmer. Maybe he’d also enjoy a more—official position. He wraps his arms around Kylo’s back, kisses the tip of his nose as he considers the offer. Kylo peers at him, slightly cross-eyed, and gives him a rare, bashful smile.

Armitage knows he’s done for.

**Eighteen Days Later**

The staff comes down, and Kylo rolls to the side to dodge, hears it slam into the floor of the training room right next to his head. He comes up into a crouch, listens for a moment. There’s a slight creak to his left, the whirr of mechanics to his right—and he counts to ten, breaks into a run at eight.

(Something whistles in the air behind him, and he feels a pulse of disappointment in the Force, like sound waves, easily tracked.)

Kylo runs up the wall at the far end of the room, launches himself up until he grabs one of the support beams on the ceiling, flips up into the rafters and perches there, breathing heavily. Waiting. A bead of sweat trickles into his eye and he blinks it away, brings up his forearm to press the blindfold against his face to soak up the rest of it. It’s oppressively hot in here, and it’s worse now that he’s perched up by the ceiling. He takes another breath, reaches inside himself, and slows his own heartbeat.

They’re both down there. His Knights. He can feel the whisper of Elen’s presence in the Force, a knife-thin edge, and the hum of the mechanics in her prosthetics. Anat is a different story—he can’t feel her at all, but he can feel the gaps in the room where she used to be, the shadows she used to cast, the—

There’s a distinct _click_ , and then the fluttering whirr of a series of training droids activating. Kylo breathes deeply, shifts his bare feet on the support beam, sharpens his senses with the Force. He’s only got moments before they—

—he has no time at all. The droids have sensed him. They whir as they orient themselves toward the ceiling, fire scatter-shots of blasters all at once. Kylo drops down to the floor, lands in a crouch. Flings out his hand, letting a shock wave ripple out and sending the droids back, everything perfectly under his control, and under his direction.

Another bolt passes by his ear, and he ducks, reaches out with his hand and physically grabs the closest droid, flings it across the room to knock out two of its fellows. Leaps up into the air, buoyed by the Force, and then holds himself up there a moment until the droids have already fired, lands heavily back down on the floor and sends out another rippling shock wave from his palm to push them all back.

Silence.

Kylo crouches, listens.

Waits.

(It’s made enough noise that Elen and Anat could be anywhere, now. He hasn’t heard their transitions, and he doesn’t hear them now, the sad mechanical twitches of the training droids covering up anything else that he would normally be able to hear.)

_There_. The creak of a heavy footstep. Anat. He tips his head, extends his Force presence outward. She is a hulking gap in the Force, thick shadows and empty spaces in—two locations in the room, no—three locations in the room—four—

—a slight whistle in the air, something moving—

He brings his hand up just in time to catch Elen’s staff on his forearm. Grabs it and pulls, expecting to fling her past him—but she hangs on, and her weight carries him forward, so that he has to take steps to compensate, calling on the Force as a tool to steady him. He feels Anat’s presence before he smells her, leather and oil and blood, and he ducks under her fist just as she swings at his back, drives his own fist up into her ribcage.

It’s like hitting a brick wall. The breath comes out of her in a huff, and if he had time, he could hit her again—but Elen’s weight has disappeared from the staff, and Kylo grips the staff with two hands now, turns—

—her feet land on the small of his back as she launches herself toward the ceiling.

“Show-off,” Anat mutters.

Elen’s answering exhalation comes from above them both.

Kylo shifts his grip on the staff, moves out of Anat’s grappling range. Extends his Force presence upwards to try and track Elen, moving across the ceiling beams, the same time he tracks Anat, back away from him in order to—

A blaster bolt screams across the back of Kylo’s neck, his Force-amplified dodge happening just in time to avoid taking the hit. He hears Anat’s footsteps, coming toward him quickly—ducks out of her way, and then extends his hand quickly to the ceiling, catching Elen in the midst of a Force-fall that would have landed her right between his shoulder blades.

Elen’s presence in the Force ripples, dissolves. The weight he’s holding evaporates. Kylo pulls his hand back, panting, gathering lightning in his palm. The last remaining droid crackles, sends off a blaster bolt that Kylo catches with his left hand even as he launches a ball of lightning with his right, disables the droid. Elen is on him now, tackling him from behind with more momentum than she should have, and Kylo staggers forward, bends to flip her over his body and onto the floor, reaches out where he thinks she is, and catches nothing but air between his hands. He rolls forward, springs back to his feet, reaches out—catches her foot in his hand and _pulls_ with his body and the Force both, throws her to the other side of the room where she lands, air coming out of her in a huff.

Kylo stands, listens. Silence—

—but for the whirr of something in the top corner of the ceiling, even though Elen is on the other side of the room and Anat is—somewhere in front of him. Kylo tips his head, extends his awareness toward the corner of the room where something is moving—another droid?

No, he realizes. The security cameras. Kylo grins, wiggles his fingers up at the camera. Immediately ducks—and while he dodges the bolt that goes over his head, he does not dodge Anat’s foot, coming down hard on his own, or the hit with Elen’s staff, which smacks him fast and hard across the ribs, sending him down to the ground, hard.

Something sticks right in the hollow of his throat.

“That’s not a staff,” he manages.

“No,” Anat says.

He reaches up, pushes the blindfold up on his face, blinks at the sudden influx of light.

Stares down at the Z6 baton Anat is pressing into his throat.

“I can deactivate that with the Force,” he says softly.

“Ah,” she says, voice gravelled. “But can you deactivate it faster than I activate it?”

There’s a light tap from the other side of the room, and then he can see Elen out of his peripheral vision. She’s sweating on the flesh side of her face, but the corner of her mouth is hooked up in a smile.

“You fucked up,” she says bluntly, leaning over and taking the baton from Anat’s hands.

“I fucked up,” Kylo admits, sitting up and taking the blindfold off, wrapping it around the wrist of his right hand.

“You’re letting the political aspect of the job distract you from your work,” Anat says, rolling her shoulders back to work out the kinks before reaching over to Elen, touching her casually on her hip before turning to leave.

Kylo rubs at his side where she’d hit him with the staff, winces. Flexes and points his foot, which is already starting to purple.

“It’s not the political aspect that’s distracting him,” Elen says in a whisper.

“Hey,” Kylo snaps.

She grins at him, silver teeth glinting back mirror-image reflections of his own face. “We don’t expect to return in the next quarter,” she says as she calls her staff back to her hand with the Force.

Kylo gets to his feet. “You’ll say if you need anything?”

“We won’t,” Elen says. She glances up at the security camera in the top corner of the room, and then grins viciously, and leaves the training room.

“You still there?” Kylo asks softly, looking up where she’d been looking.

The security camera in the top corner shifts up and down, nodding.

“I’ll call soon,” Kylo promises.

*

“Sorry,” Kylo says. “I got waylaid on the way back from the gym.”

“Everything alright?” Armitage asks. His eyes trace up and down Kylo’s body before landing back on his face.

Kylo shrugs, pulls his shirt off over his head. “The New Republic came back with some questions about the arrangement—what constitutes a formerly imperial planet, who gets to vote, how the voting will be conducted—basic democracy stuff.” He tosses his shirt across the room into the laundry chute. “I didn’t want to leave it until morning, I thought maybe we could go over it after I shower.”

“Mmm,” Armitage says. He taps his stylus on his lower lip, leans back against whatever surface he’s sitting on. “We could, if you like.”

Kylo opens the conservator, takes out a container of synthesized protein and a set of chopsticks to eat it with, leans back against the counter. “You’re remarkably calm about this,” he notes.

“Compromise and further discussion are standard procedure in political negotiation,” Armitage says primly—but Kylo doesn’t miss the way that his cheeks pinken, visible even though the holo.

“As a matter of fact,” Kylo says, seeing the truth of it, “You’re so calm that you might even be postorgasmic.”

“Have you seen yourself train?” The colour on Armitage’s face is even brighter now. “I don’t know what you expect me to do, when you look like that.” He gives Kylo another once-over. “Or like this,” he adds.

Kylo grins. “Starkiller is pretty lonely, huh?”

Armitage rolls his eyes, adjusts his robe. “Long nights.”

“Did you take pictures for me, kitten?”

“I did you one better,” Armitage says, reaching for something off-frame, and then returning with a glass of wine in one hand. “I filmed it for you.”

Kylo’s dick starts to thicken, and he reaches down, adjusts himself. “Babe.”

“You’re welcome,” Armitage replies. He takes a sip of his wine. “You’ll be happy to know,” he adds, “that the heat is working splendidly, and there hasn’t been so much as a drop of water in the place outside of whatever Millie is splashing outside her dish.”

“Is she enjoying being back planetside?”

Armitage looks off-camera. “You are, aren’t you, sweetheart?” He smiles, then, turns back to Kylo. “She played in the snow most of the afternoon while I worked on a project.”

Kylo swallows his food, tilts his head. “You said the observatory isn’t leaking, though?”

“I’m considering expanding it,” Armitage admits. “I was taking measurements.”

Kylo scrapes the last few pieces of protein out of the container, pops them into his mouth. Floats the garbage into the chute, then sits up on the counter so he’s eye-to-eye with Armitage’s hologram. Armitage glances down between Kylo’s legs, newly visible in the frame, and Kylo grins, widens his legs so that Armitage has something to look at. “You liked watching me train, huh, kitten? Got yourself all worked up?”

“You know what you look like,” Armitage says mildly, eyes still fixated on Kylo’s crotch. “You know I’ll never get over it.” He sets down his wine, the shoulder of his robe slipping as he reaches off-screen.

“It’s all for you, babe,” Kylo says, dropping his voice to a low rumble. He brings his hand between his legs, palms himself. “You make my cock so hard when you look at me like that.”

“You should show it to me,” Armitage breathes. He loosens the belt of his robe, and Kylo immediately thinks of their first holocalls, the time that Armitage had wrapped the belt around his own cock until it stood there, chubby and proud, constricted by black silk and the teasing pressure of Armitage’s own hands. “That hit you took at the end of training—did you bruise?”

Kylo lifts his arm, turns to the side so Armitage can see, looks down at himself. “Probably by tomorrow, yeah,” he says. Then he frowns, wrinkles his nose. “I need to shower.”

“One of these days,” Armitage teases. “I’ll catch you right fresh from your workout. Wait right here, drop my robe when you come in. I’ll bend over the counter with my hole slick and ready for you—”

Kylo groans. “Babe, I need to shower. Hold that thought, please.”

Armitage tugs the belt of his robe completely loose, plays with the hem. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll be waiting.”

“You’ll be touching that gorgeous cock of yours,” Kylo teases. “Just as impatient as you were before.”

“Well,” Armitage says, “you’d best hurry up, then, hadn’t you?”

“Yes, Supreme Leader,” Kylo says. He slides off the counter, lingers until Armitage arches his eyebrow, and then gives a playful bow before closing the connection and heading for the refresher. He slides the door shut behind him with the Force, undresses completely, is just running the water in the shower when he hears his comm buzz in the other room.

He grins, summons his comm. It could be the video Armitage had recorded for him earlier, it could be a request for another call so Armitage can watch him shower. It could be that Armitage couldn’t wait, is touching himself already and wants Kylo to watch. He steps into the steaming hot water, mounts the comm on the wall. Ducks his head under the spray and starts massaging shampoo through it, remembering the time Armitage had messaged him a list of toys to bring out and his ETA for arrival back to their room, and maybe it’s one of those messages, maybe it’s—

_d5692s8i2b [Encrypted]: hey, kid._

Kylo’s entire body goes ice-cold.

_j568fyt338789 [Encrypted]: so it’s been a while. heard you changed your name. got yourself a promotion. Supreme Leader, huh?_

This isn’t—this. It isn’t. It’s—

His hands still on his hair.

The messages keep rolling in.

_g75dfkj092dsjt [Encrypted]: I’m still flying. doing a bit of this, bit of that._

_yt87wsya450ds [Encrypted]: you never really used to care, but i admit i never really knew you all that well._

_p765ftg9i0 [Encrypted]: always regretted that, a bit._

Kylo swallows. His mouth is dry, his stomach is in knots. He’s been prepared for—everything, since he took down his hood and let the Resistance see who he is. Official visits. Assassination attempts. A list of demands, courtesy of one Leia Organa. Blistering indictments of the things he’s done, the people he’s killed, the massacres he’s committed.

He’s alone. He’s not supposed to be alone for this. He’s not—he’s not—

_t76asd98cjsad2 [Encrypted]: that offer of a drink is still open, if you’re interested. the whiskey I poured out for you was Corellian, but that’s a mourning ritual. i’ll dig up something nicer for a reunion._

Anything except this. Not this. Not—not this. This is lighting up all sorts of pathways in his brain that he thought were dead, the agony of abandonment and perpetual isolation, the places where it hurts more than it should—but also the places where it doesn’t hurt at all anymore, the places in his mind that have gone just as numb as his fingertips, the part where he knew something like this would happen, because why wouldn’t something like this happen, because he knew that a massacre wasn’t going to fix anything this time—it hadn’t fixed anything last time—it hadn’t—

_y87sasdl091lkjo87 [Encrypted]: Still can’t believe you’re alive._

Kylo exhales heavily. It’s not a sob.

_u898rtsd623dop [Encrypted]: I’ll be on Jakku a bit, tying up some loose ends._

_p5712qa7rtu [Encrypted]: scavenger stole the Falcon. got it under control._

_i7de8mn50 [Encrypted]: you know how to find me if you’re interested._

His face is wet. He turns to face the water, resumes washing his hair by rote. His entire body is on edge, waiting for another message to come. Five minutes. Ten minutes.

Twenty.

After half an hour, he turns off the water, stands there dripping. Looks down at his hands. They’re trembling. He can’t do this. He can’t think. He’s alone in his quarters and his—his—he’s just been texted by—he’s—

_Supreme Leader Ren: there’s been a complication._

_Supreme Leader Hux: oh?_

Kylo selects the encrypted messages, copies them. De-selects them. Runs his hand back through his wet hair and sinks down to the floor of the shower. Stares at the last of the water, running into the drain. Wishes he was small enough to just—

His datapad chimes, once, and then the connection is brute-forced open. Kylo puts his hands over his ears, looks up at the screen through the wet hair hanging over his—

“Armitage,” he breathes. Moves his hands.

“Kylo,” Armitage says. “Kylo, look at me. What happened?”

“Hold on a sec,” Kylo mutters. “I’ll get up in a minute, I just need to—send some messages to you.”

“I’ll look,” Armitage says. “You don’t need to do anything.”

Kylo takes a wet breath, pushes his hair back from my face. “The messages are on my comm,” he says.

“Right,” Armitage says. He frowns at something off-screen. “These shouldn’t have even come through—”

“I like that,” Kylo says softly. He leans back against the wall of the shower, looks up at the video of Armitage on the screen. “That you just bully your way in there when you need to.”

Armitage scowls on the other end of the screen. “Fucking slicers are supposed to have firewalls against this—is that a different account every single time?”

“We should leave the weakness open,” Kylo manages. “Whatever backdoor they used, we should…it was an attack targeted specifically at me, I don’t think the rest of the First Order is at risk. I’ll, uh. I guess I should...” He presses his palms against the floor, pushes himself up a little before realizing he feels physically ill. His legs are shaking. He lowers himself back down. “Wish you were here,” he admits.

“...I’m sorry,” Armitage says. “I was—caught up in the technicalities.” He leans in closer to the camera. “Are you okay, Kylo?”

“Yeah,” Kylo says. Shakes his head. “I mean…”

Armitage’s voice goes even softer. “Why don’t you dry off and come to bed?”

“I can’t—”

“Better camera setup there,” Armitage says. “I should have updated your personal datapad before I left, I wasn’t thinking.” He frowns, makes a pinching motion in the air. “I’m having a hell of a time reading your face.”

“Nothing to read,” Kylo admits. He tips his head up toward the camera, unselfconsciously scrubs at his face with his palms. “I’m a mess, I didn’t think…”

“Go gather up that brute of a dog of yours,” Armitage says. “Get some clothes on. Call me back from bed.” He glances offscreen. “What do you think, seven minutes or so?”

“Stay with me,” Kylo says.

“Of course,” Armitage agrees. The video wobbles as he stands, picks the datapad up, adjusts his robe. “I’ll make tea while you’re getting dressed.”

Kylo nods. Forces himself upright, gestures at the datapad to pluck it from the shower wall, tows it behind him with the Force as he steps out of the shower.

Trust Han to—find somebody to blackmail, some way to get to Kylo, even though it’s been—years since they’ve spoken, and the last time was to—

_Hey, kid, wanna grab a drink? I know this place on Takodona, I can spirit you away for a bit._

_You know I don’t drink. It’s not the will of the Force._

_Come on, kid, your uncle Luke still puts hard liquor in his hot chocolate and it doesn’t hurt him any, it’ll be fine. Galactic standard for adulthood is seventeen, and you’re—what, four years past that now?_

_It’s not the will of the Force._

_It’ll take—_

_Not interested._

—Kylo puts his hand on his chest. Tries to force his heart to slow. Glances behind him at the still-open video call on the datapad he’s holding in the air with the Force. Armitage has set his datapad down in the kitchen of the observatory, is making himself tea in his short little black robe, his pale legs on display.

Kylo swallows. Okay. He can do this. He grabs his towel, scrubs it through his hair, and then down his body. Sends the towel into the laundry chute, walks naked into his dressing room, pulling the datapad behind him. Reaches out his hand and tugs—something, from his drawer. Anything.

He recognizes the fabric by touch. Looks down at soft black briefs with red trim, eyes stinging, because Armitage knew what he needed, even then, Armitage always knew exactly what he needed—

“Always liked those on you,” Armitage says. “I’ve got my tea, are you ready?”

Kylo ducks his head, steps into his underwear. Tugs them up his legs with the Force, runs his hand back through his wet hair again. “Nearly,” he says. He looks at Armitage’s holo again, chest aching with emotion and loneliness and—

“Come on, then,” Armitage says briskly, looking off-screen. “No more treats, Millie, we’re headed to bed now. I’ll give you a nice brush if you’ll come sit in my lap.”

Kylo exhales. He should—he should head into his room. Their bedchambers. He tugs at the hovering datapad, pads on bare feet into the next room.

There are little touches of Armitage everywhere here, and it’s enough that Kylo can feel the tension momentarily ease from his body. One of his robes is hanging from a hook next to Kylo’s. Their Supreme Leader circlets are sitting right there, illuminated by small spotlights, and displayed on a shelf right opposite the bed. (The last time Armitage fucked him, Kylo came staring at the circlets, with Armitage’s fingers wrapped around his cock.) There’s a stack of flimsi on Armitage’s side of the bed, and one of Kylo’s scrolls on top of the stack. There’s a large screen on one side of the room, and the screen displays a panoramic view of Starkiller, with their observatory off in the top right, which means Armitage is right _there_ , too far away for Kylo to teleport to, he’ll get the calculations wrong at this distance, end up stuck in a black hole somewhere, floating in space, he’ll end up—

“None of that,” Armitage says sharply, voice much clearer than before. “Kylo,” he says, his voice softer, lower. “Back to me.”

Kylo turns. Armitage is on the comm system in their chambers now, a life-size blue-tinged figure standing next to the bed.

“I can see you clearer now,” Armitage says. “You look like hell, frankly.”

“Thanks,” Kylo says.

“You should sleep.”

Kylo laughs, the sound hollow and echoed. “I won’t be sleeping,” he says. “I won’t be able to calm down.” He runs his hand back through his hair, traces the outline of Armitage’s body with his eyes. “I miss you so much,” he admits. He wants to just—walk across the room, bury his head into Armitage’s shoulder—but Armitage isn’t here, not physically, and so Kylo stays where he is, standing at the entrance to their bedroom. “You have this way of...making my brain stop. And I want...I want my brain to stop.”

Armitage leans back against something, waits. His hologram is cutting through the edge of the bed, but as long as Kylo only looks at him from the waist-up, he doesn’t notice, and he can pretend Armitage is here, Armitage is right here with him—

(Kylo can feel it, itching under his skin. Years of estrangement, of abandonment when he needed it most—of contact when he wanted it least—everything always at the wrong time, at the wrong intensity, never enough to make him settled or comfortable, always too much—and he just wants to stop, the entire thing to stop, he wants to be surrounded by Armitage, he wants to be enveloped by him, but Armitage is on Starkiller and Kylo is here, and he’s alone, he’s alone, he’s—)

“I need you,” Kylo blurts. “I need to stop thinking, I need—if you were here, I would want—I want—I just need—I can’t calm down, I can’t—think, I can’t—” His voice comes out in a whine, and he bites down on his own lip, looks away.

“Hey,” Armitage says softly. “You can calm down. I can walk you through it.” He holds up his palms, wiggles his fingers. “Once for yes…”

Kylo laughs weakly, takes a few steps further into the room. “Always yes,” he says. “What should I do, Armitage?”

Armitage considers, taps his finger on his lip for a moment before he purses his lips and whistles. There’s a noise from behind Kylo, and then a _whuff_ as Nebulosa pads in from the dressing room, shaking her head as though she’d been sleeping.

“There you are,” Armitage says. He steps away, hologram moving to the side. “Up on the bed, both of you.”

“Come on,” Kylo says softly, reaching down and rubbing at Nebulosa’s dermal plate with his knuckles. Her skin is warm. “You can come up, we’ll wash the sheets before Armitage gets home.”

“Should have washed them before I left,” Armitage says. “Honestly.”

Kylo steps next to Armitage’s hologram, brings up his fingers and holds them just next to Armitage’s face, without quite touching. He won’t be able to feel anything if he doesn’t touch—but he won’t be able to feel anything if he does, either, unless he uses the flat of his palm, either on the hologram or on Armitage’s flesh—

Armitage sighs, tips his head toward Kylo, hologram image passing, just briefly, through Kylo’s fingers before Armitage straightens. “Sit down with me?” he asks. “We can talk about it, if you like.”

Kylo sighs, sits down on the bed. Pats the sheets next to him until Nebulosa jumps up. Lets her curl up on his side of the bed—and then he lies down on Armitage’s, tugging Armitage’s pillow into his chest. It smells of Armitage— his skin and the slight remnants of his shampoo. “This is just so—typical of him.”

“Mmm,” Armitage says, sitting down in thin air.

(Kylo uses the Force to nudge the camera slightly, pull Armitage’s hologram closer until he’s seated on Kylo’s side of the bed.)

Armitage glances off-screen again, and then reaches out both hands, brings Millie back in one, and his datapad in the other, settles them both into his lap. “I’ve been looking at our intelligence reports, and the chances of this being part of a Resistance—”

“It’s not your problem to address,” Kylo says, softly. “Leia Organa would never let him send something so reckless, but now that he has, it’ll become a whole thing. It’s my family. I’ll deal with it.”

“You know you don’t need to do that alone,” Armitage says. “I have some concerns--who he may be in contact with, the next steps taken.” He hesitates for a moment, then swallows. “But that’s neither here nor there. I’m with you, every step of the way.”

“This is supposed to not be a problem anymore,” Kylo whines, hugging Armitage’s pillow to his chest.

Nebulosa whuffs, headbutts Kylo in the ribs before shoving her body up against his side, pinning him down to the bed like a particularly rubbery blanket. Kylo tugs her in closer, shifts down on the bed and lays his head on top of Nebulosa’s.

Armitage blinks at him. “How so?”

“I killed them all,” Kylo says softly. “I came to the Order with their blood on my hands. I left behind everything. I was supposed to be—I was supposed to—he can’t just _swagger_ in here, like he didn’t abandon me, like I didn’t—like I didn’t murder the children he used to brag to, like I didn’t—he can’t just—”

“Family is complicated,” Armitage says. “Stars know I never introduced you to my father, I can’t see why you’d think I’d need to be introduced to yours, if you didn’t want it.”

Kylo sighs, leans back against the headboard. Extends his bare foot out, through Armitage’s hologram, until it’s almost like Armitage is sitting on his leg. “I met Brendol,” he says. “Officially. It was—thought to be important. It wasn’t.”

Armitage’s upper lip curls. “Odious man,” he says. Then he grins. “Should have invited you to see him in bacta. It was beautifully inelegant.”

Kylo thinks of it, briefly—and then thinks of his own father, on old security footage, blinking away the after-effects of cryogenic suspension, and he just feels—naked. Exposed. Raw. _Aw, he’s just a kid, Lando, let him be. He didn’t mean nothing by it._ Of sitting behind the controls of the Falcon. Sitting on top of Han’s shoulders, reaching for the upper switches. The first time he flicked them with the Force, and Han laughed.

(The last time, shoving at all the controls at once in a blind rage, his own father backing away from him.)

“Heard it was a rare disease,” Kylo says instead, trying to redirect the conversation back. Because the thought of his own father, dissolving in bacta is—painful, almost, even though he doesn’t want to see him either. Even though he doesn’t want—he just—

“In its own way,” Armitage says vaguely, and then he grins that Karkarodon grin again, all teeth. “Phasma was a very efficient vector.”

Kylo chuckles, shifts in bed and bends his elbow to scritch at the tentacles under Nebulosa’s chin. “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he says, after a moment. “I mean I’m not—I’m not going back to Jakku.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Armitage says lightly. “It’s not _that_ terrible a planet.” He rubs at the back of his neck. There’s a loose piece of hair hanging forward over his face. “I can think of a few good things that happened on Jakku.”

“Point taken,” Kylo says. He watches Armitage take a long sip of his tea, watches his elegant fingers curled around the cup, the information autoscrolling on the datapad in his lap. “...you still think it’s a Resistance plot.”

Armitage exhales through his nose, takes another sip of tea.

“...it might be,” Kylo allows. “I’d rather...meet them officially. Not personally. I can’t let them—I can’t let them think I’m him.”

Nebulosa whoofs out a hot breath across Kylo’s arm, her fangs pressing against his bicep.

“They couldn’t,” Armitage says.

“He’s just...like that,” Kylo says irritably, shifting to move Nebulosa over a bit, rubbing his fingers over her wrinkly skin to try and calm himself down. “If I see him unofficially...we’ll just be—going out for a drink, like I’m one of his gambling buddies that he’s spent the last few decades fucking over. He’ll make a big show of not telling— _her_ , and he’ll say something about Skywalker without meaning to, and then grin at me like that covers it all over, and then he’ll have about four stories about how much of a hero he was pulling whatever washed-up scams he’s been pulling, and he’ll make a big deal out of whatever he’s ordering.”

“And you don’t even drink,” Armitage says softly. “Except for the spite drinking at my promotion.”

Kylo grimaces. He can still remember how sharp and bitter the alcohol was, how the bubbles scratched at the back of his throat and the drink sat heavy in his stomach. “I hated it, if that’s any consolation,” he says. He takes a deep breath, exhales. “I don’t want to have anything to do with Han Solo,” he says, finally. “I know there’s a reckoning coming because of my decision to tell Dameron who I am. But I don’t—I don’t want to engage with this personally. I’ll deal with it professionally, or I won’t deal with it at all.”

Armitage nods, turns off his datapad and sets it aside, buries his hand back in Millie’s fur. “Then that’s settled,” he says. “I’ll speak with the slicers when I get back home, and I’ll be right by your side for whatever official event needs to happen.”

“...thank you,” Kylo says, touched and suddenly exhausted. He turns his head to the side, buries his face in Armitage’s pillow.

“Here,” Armitage says quietly. “Lie down, dim the lights. Pull the covers up. I won’t be gone much longer—a day or two my time. Rest up, I’ll be back before you know it.”

Kylo grumbles an unintelligible complaint into the warmth of Armitage’s pillow, tugs the blankets back up over himself with the Force even as he eases the lights down lower. “Can you…”

“Yeah?” Armitage asks. He’s glowing slightly blue in the light, Millie in his lap, purring loud enough that the audio is picking it up.

“Keep the connection open a bit?” Kylo asks. “Just until I sleep?”

Armitage ducks his head, smiles. “I’ll do you one better,” he says, stretching, and then lying down, pulling his pillow into the frame of the call. “I’ll sleep too.”

“Thank you,” Kylo murmurs. He closes his eyes, listens to Armitage breathe on the other end of the call. After a moment, he realizes that Armitage is humming, quietly.

_Cá bhfuil an tuaisceart?_

“Wherever you are,” Kylo whispers into Armitage’s pillow. “You’re my north.”

**Six Weeks Later**

The sun drops down the horizon, its last rays glimmering on the surface of the lake. Armitage squints, watching it. The quality of the light is foreign; the planet’s air feels heavy in his lungs as he descends the Lambda craft’s ramp. The shuttle is hovering above the water, the hot blast of its engines turning droplets into thick vapour that surges around him. Kylo and he walk through the steam, arm in arm, leading each other blindly.

Armitage turns to him once he feels stone under his feet. It must be the balcony. Varkyno, Lake Country, Naboo. Queen Amidala’s former safehouse. He studies Kylo’s face for any sign of discomfort, ready to wave to their pilot, call the meeting off. Notes the determined set of Kylo’s jaw: he’s resolute. A silver circlet rests upon his forehead, his hair carefully arranged into heavy curls. His black garments are exquisitely tailored and fit him snugly; his off-shoulder cape is billowing in the wind, lined with the finest silver silk of Belsavis. Armitage mirrors his appearance with his gold circlet and gold lining, his own cape on the opposite shoulder, the left. They look like they belong to each other, and belong here: they look like royalty. Armitage hopes Kylo feels the part. Touches his face as the mist evaporates.

“Ready?”

Gold eyes meet silver.

“In a minute,” Kylo says. The villa looms over them: stone walls, a green cupola and two little towers, overrun with lush ivy, a thousand flowers blooming, strange bird soaring. It’s all very foreign; it’s _intimidating_ , even if that’s rather—pathetic to admit. Any human being would consider this place divine, wouldn’t think that trees or hills are _strange_ , wouldn’t look at a charming historical building and think: _but is it safe_?

Kylo curls his fingers into fists and Armitage presses closer to him. Being here must be eerie; made to face his heritage in such a _tactless_ way, honestly. Meeting Organa on Naboo was a logical choice. Resistance extremism has no place here, and nor do the Order’s doctrines. The planet belongs to the crumbling New Republic, but their media won’t dare to directly approach them. (Armitage has noticed at least five drones, but won’t acknowledge their presence. This meeting is good for the Order’s public image. They need their pictures taken. They need to look their best. Seem approachable. Organa will surrender. There is no other choice left. They have no control over the Senate.)

“Take as long as you need,” Armitage whispers, presses a kiss to Kylo’s shoulder.

(They mustn't have control over Kylo, either, but they think they can win him over. It’s apparent. They mistake his anger for guilt, his hesitation for uncertainty. It will doom them. It will—)

“Master Ben!” A droid calls from atop the stairs. Kylo pales looking at it, its expressionless face. Armitage would never fault a droid for its programming, but he’s ready to throw a vibroblade at it. How maladroit to send a protocol droid to greet them under the pretense of neutrality, civility, and to send one Kylo grew up with. They barely landed, but the emotional blackmailing has begun; it’s been constant since Solo’s first misguided message.

Armitage takes Kylo’s hand, rubs his knuckles. “Three hours,” he whispers into his hair. “We leave after that, whatever happens. You only need to bear this for three hours. I will count.”

“Master Ben, is that you?” The droid descends the stairs, tilting his head hesitantly, arms half-raised: the gesture of surrender, or the beginning of an embrace, Armitage can’t say. Kylo watches it.

“In my culture,” he says, “we call each other by rank. You will address and introduce me as Supreme Leader Ren.”

* 

The table is set for a lavish meal with fine porcelain, crystal glasses and Corellian silverware. It’s been forty minutes, and they haven’t made it past the appetizers, the juicy pears, walnuts and mesa goat cheese mostly untouched on their plate. The round marble room is spacious, the tall windows open to the lake, breeze and twilight rushing in, yet it feels claustrophobic. Kylo and Armitage sit on tall chairs, facing Solo and Organa.

They look old. Fragile. Armitage was ready to face down Rebel heroes, tell two war criminals to back off, but they have no weapons, and didn’t even dress up for the occasion. Leia Organa, who was wearing lipstick and silver nine months pregnant, has a green shirt and purple vest on, and hotshot pilot _General_ Han Solo looks like he’s been wearing the same jacket for decades.

Organa is talking about politics while picking at the pears, but Armitage hardly hears her words.

“The Resistance strongly denounces the First Order’s proposal for a referendum that would allow planets in each sector to vote whether they want to belong to the  New Empire  or remain with the Republic. It goes against the spirit of democracy.”

Kylo is watching her with welled-up eyes, and Solo is looking at his son while nursing a full glass  of wine. They want him to break. They expect him to beg. Come apart in front of all the troopers standing around; make them feel like idiots for bringing a squad of bodyguards when Solo and Organa are unarmed, and Organa poses as a mediator—as if what she’s saying wasn’t going against the New Republic’s will, wasn’t just a last hoorah, a desperate and stubborn show of power of her radical group of goons and maniacs.

“Specify the ‘spirit of democracy,’” Armitage says. Organa looks at him as if she has forgotten he was there. Armitage doesn’t let it affect him; won’t be sidelined. “I find the term rather vague.”

Organa looks over at Kylo, who quickly averts his gaze.

“I believe you know what is meant by it,” she says softly. Kylo looks up immediately.

“Supreme Leader Hux asked a question,” he grits. Armitage squeezes his knee _. It’s okay. Don’t show emotion. Don’t let them win_.

He’s worried what this meeting might do to Kylo. He’s strong; he’s overcome so much; but he might still need an embrace Armitage will be unable to give in public, in front of the enemy, a quiet whisper of encouragement Armitage cannot risk being overheard. Their involvement is hardly a secret within the Order, but it’s something they keep close to their chest: something precious, something intimate.

As soon as they officially reveal it to the whole galaxy, it’ll become a weakness.

They cannot have that.

Armitage pulls his hand back, even though it kills him.

If they win, they won’t have to live like this.

If they win—

“Having a democratic vote on whether a planet’s population wishes to _cease_ to be a democracy is a paradox,” Leia explains with an insufferably exasperated air.

“With your permission,” Armitage says, bowing his head, thinking _kill them with kindness, kill them, kill them_ , “I fail to see that as a paradox.”

“It would lead to civil war,” Solo interrupts, still looking at nothing but his son. “A war on every planet, every sector. The whole damn galaxy tearing itself apart. Then planets waging war on neighbouring planets with different views. It’d never end.”

“It doesn’t have to start,” Kylo says. He sounds rough, and he’s not making eye contact with anybody. “If we wanted a war, we’d go and have it. Fire Starkiller. It’s ready. We’re here to negotiate _peace_.”

Organa smiles at him, sad, broken, pitying. “We’re in a cold war, but the Republic is not arming itself. You do. We do. Did he tell you that’s what peace was?” She nods towards Armitage. He tries his best to not react, sit there like a puppet, but he adjusts his hair without meaning to. It’s quite long now. It falls into his face, and he shouldn’t be hiding behind it. Tucks a lock behind his ear, can’t help but feel he’s fidgeting, that it will be perceived as weak. He always wanted long hair, and maybe his father was right, it’s a vanity, maybe he shouldn’t have it.

“I came to the conclusion—” Kylo spits.

“First Snoke, then the son of Brendol Hux,” Organa goes on. Sets her fork aside, gives a mortifying look to Armitage. He wants to snarl at her. Show the teeth he’s carefully hiding with a patient smile. Show his claws. Tear her world apart. “Who’s your next leader?” Organa asks.

“Me,” Kylo snaps. “It’s all my doing. It’s always been me.”

Organa reaches across the table. “It’s not you,” she says gently. Kylo recoils, gets to his feet. The way his chair creaks makes Armitage flinch, but he keeps a straight face. He must sit still, represent the strength that’s  slipping through Kylo’s fingers.

_You have power._

_You have me._

“How can you believe—”

“Because it upsets you,” Organa says calmly. “Because it means you’re still fighting.”

“It means I’m annoyed!” Kylo shouts at her, points a finger at the door. “Tell her to stop!”

Armitage looks at him with the same worry that’s on Organa’s face. Considers reaching out. They’re connected through the Force, but he cannot _feel_ it unless Kylo is projecting. He’s not talking to him right now: he’s cut off, wild eyes on the door like he’s seeing a ghost.

It wouldn’t be the first visitation.

“Who?” Organa asks.

“The girl!” Kylo says, gesturing at the door. Nobody is there. “She keeps pacing, it’s driving me insane!”

Solo and Organa share a glance. Armitage half-rises from his seat, then forces himself to pretend he’s just shuffling uncomfortably. Illusions, nightmares: he knows what to do about them, how to comfort Kylo, but this is something new—it’s never happened in the daylight before. He’s grabbing the table’s edge so hard his knuckles whiten.

_If you broke him,_ he thinks, _I’m breaking you_.

He remains calm. He has to. Kylo is right: he’s North—no matter how far Kylo’s mind wanders, where dark memories take him, he’ll find his way back home, find his way to him. Armitage is rooted in his seat. He wishes he could guide him. That helps him, always: touching his hand, calling his name. The distance between them now is unbearable.

_I’m breaking you,_ he thinks again. The vibroblade is ready in his sleeve. He could get up, pull Kylo back down to his reality, hide him in his embrace—murder every witness.

Kill every single one of them.

Organa’s voice is gentle. “I didn’t know telepathy still troubled you.”

“Why would you know,” Kylo mutters.

“Remember what we used to do when the world got too loud? How I used to sing? _Soplaba un viento del norte—”_

_“Ese niño parece estar perdido.”_

_A North wind is blowing. The little boy looks lost._

Organa reaches for her son’s hand, gracelessly leaning over the table and nearly knocking over the glasses. She only manages to grab one of Kylo’s fingers, but it’s enough to jolt him out of his reverie, make him look down at her, scowling. Armitage sees something dangerous in his eyes, something feeble. It’d be wrong to deny him this moment. Armitage thinks of his own mother, the truth he confessed to Kylo under covers, late at night: _I never knew her._

What Kylo told him: _I loved my mother. I used to love her more than the entire world_.

_What happened_? Armitage asked.

_Nothing happened. I knew her too well. I knew about every thought crossing through her head even before I was born. And she—she didn’t know a single thing about me. Never bothered to question convictions. That’s Ben, she thought. That’s my son. I resent Skywalker, but at least he bothered to see me for what I’ve always been. I was never just a kid. I didn’t have the luxury. I wanted to be a pilot more than anything. But no. Jedi Knight Ben Solo. Our pride and joy. Then one night Skywalker decided to look—_

“I always felt the Darkness in you,” Organa says, holding onto Kylo’s finger, watching how their hands are connected. “It always felt foreign. We used to think Snoke was your imaginary friend, remember? I’m so sorry we didn’t recognise the damage he’s done to you. Just because he’s dead it doesn’t mean he cannot still be inside your head—”

Armitage flinches and Kylo snarls. Pulls his hand back, throws his arm out with a yell.

The Force tears the door open.

There’s a scrawny teenager there, awkwardly frozen mid-step. Armitage recognises her. The last time, she didn’t have a lightsaber in her hand.

“You brought backup, huh?” Kylo asks. “So much for family dinner.” 

She’s wearing rags similar to the ones Armitage recalls, but has a jacket over her shoulders that’s awfully familiar—that looks like Ben’s leather jacket from the news broadcast, _help us find our lost child_.

“Rey, told you to stay on the Falcon,” Solo says the same time as Organa implores, “We didn’t know she would—”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Kylo mutters. Makes a face and steps up on the table, towering over his parents to have a better look at her. “Hey there, little sister,” he says. “I see Mum and Dad finally have the child they always wanted.”

“I’m—not,” Rey says, dumbfounded. She looks around at the stormtroopers, but doesn’t seem particularly alarmed.  Her gaze finds Armitage. She scrunches up her nose.

_Run_ , Armitage mouths.

He can guess what happens next.

Kylo’s rage is burning under his own skin.

“Why are you playing games with me,” Kylo spits, “when you already have her? You have everything you ever wanted. Your son is dead. I killed him. I killed _all of them_. You know that.” He raises his voice. “Leave me to rot with the rest!” he screams, and kicks at Organa’s plate of pears. They fly everywhere. Organa flinches, and Solo reaches inside his jacket.

A blaster.

Armitage gets his blade, gets to his feet, just as Kylo jumps off the table, advancing on Rey. She ignites the lightsaber—it spits out blue plasma, but Kylo just pushes her aside with a flick of his fingers, not even looking at what he’s doing as he brushes past her, cape billowing.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Armitage mutters. Clumsily rounds the table, sidestepping cheese and fruits, then strides through the room with long steps as Organa shouts something after him. He’s not listening. He reaches for Kylo in his mind again, how Kylo taught him, but all he hears are screams of blind fury.

Fuck diplomacy.

Nothing else matters when Kylo gets like this. 

He must reach him. Nothing else exists. Kylo is hurting.

Rey stands in the door with her lightsaber. Glares at Armitage. Armitage glares right back.

“A favour for a past favour?” he says, knocks the vibroblade on the lightsaber’s hilt.

“I won’t let you destroy—” Rey spits.

“For pfassk’s sake, I’m not headed to destroy anything, my boyfriend needs me.” His face heats slightly when he hears Organa’s shocked scoff. Looks at her from over his shoulder. Stands her gaze.

He takes a risk as he steps ahead. Rey lets him pass.

He goes through darkened hallways, heart hammering, grinding his teeth—an old habit he never thought would resurface again. The Resistance is the last obstacle in their fight for dominion. Victory is within reach. Just a little longer until peace, until soundless sleep—Kylo safely tucked in his arms; nobody could disturb them, stand between them, not ever. Just a little longer, and they will be inseparable.

If only Kylo didn’t have to walk through hell to get there.

Armitage reaches the balcony, spots Kylo, and aches seeing him so devastated. He’s leaning against the intricate stone railing, a tall, lone figure in the moonlight. Armitage walks to him as if pulled by the red strings that tie their patched hearts together. He notices the gentle movement of his fingers as he gets nearer, looks out at the lake. Kylo has parted the dark water.

“Does it help?” Armitage asks, stepping behind him as he eyes the columns of water slave to Kylo’s will. Tamed waves roar and foam, and the air is heavy with the scent of algae. _Here you are_ , Armitage thinks. _Here’s what you are capable of; and how much else they don’t know—_

“I can concentrate on each individual hydrogen and oxygen molecule,” Kylo mutters. “I can create a force that moves them. No Light. No Darkness. A force of nature.” He makes the columns clash and collapse, fall back into the lake heavily. Arches his back so he’s pressed into Armitage’s chest. Armitage feels his anxiety ease.

“I didn’t think it’d be such a shitshow,” he says, apologetic.

“I did. I knew. I still came. What does that say about me?”

“Nothing. Maybe it betrays curiosity.”

“Family, huh. Nobody else in the entire universe get on my nerves like—” He lets out a ragged sigh. “What’s that if not love?”

“That’s not love.”

“Giving somebody the power to crush you like this.” Kylo pulls free, sidestepping Armitage. Hangs his crowned head. His warmth is instantly missed. 

“That’s not love,” Armitage repeats, softer. Kylo looks at his hands.

“They make me doubt everything,” he says. “Maybe it was a dream, what I did. They behave as if—as if it didn’t amount for anything. As if all that matters is what I do next.” 

“What do you want to do next?”

“Prove to them—” Kylo shakes his head. “No. Nothing to prove.”

“Prove what?”

“My karking existence, that’s what. Kylo Ren. Pleasure.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Kylo Ren,” Armitage says. He’s staying in place, at parade’s left, but he can still feel their connection. The string between them getting taut.  “I’ve known you for years. All our memories. That’s all you. All our plans.” 

Kylo gives him a sad smile. It’s startling in the moonlight. Makes him look like he’s fading away. Yellow eyes, a flash of white teeth, the lining of his cape. The rest is obscured by darkness. Armitage steps closer. He needs to see him better.

“They behave as if you were insignificant,” Kylo says. “How do they not realise—”

“They do,” Armitage interrupts. “They know who I am. Organa is a military leader. She’s trying to downplay my agency by showing no respect to my rank. It’s strategy. This entire thing has been—orchestrated so carefully, and it still—you know what? It offends me. It offends me they didn’t have a better plan of action approaching you. They just told you to come home.”

“Emotions,” Kylo says. “They’re unpredictable.” He reaches for Armitage’s hand; Armitage gives it to him, lets him inspect his palm in the moonlight. Kylo follows a line with his thumb, still standing at a distance.  “If I never met you,” he says. “If I was here alone, with nowhere else to go—”

“But you aren’t.”

“If a self is created entirely by circumstance. If there’s no destiny, no grand plans. If the closest thing to a core being is genetics—what does your science say? Can I deny the truth that is my family?”

“Of course,” Armitage chokes out. “Kylo, darling, of course.”

Kylo hums, unconvinced. Armitage hadn’t realised the meeting would shake him so wholly: less than three hours, and a complete undoing. Kylo is right—emotions cannot be accounted for. He cannot know, least of all control, what Kylo is going through—nor should he. That’s where he and Kylo’s family differ: it’s not some blasted tug of war for Kylo’s soul. Kylo is a free man, has an identity beyond belonging. He can make his own, informed decisions, and his own big blasted mistakes. He chose to slaughter Snoke; he chose to leave Armitage alone; he chose to come back; he chose to fix his mess.

Armitage can’t tell him it’s going to be okay. Cannot even propose a strategy, if they’re going back there. A family’s battleground is no man’s land, and there’s never peace, only truces. Comfort without a proposed solution would be imperfect. He needs to offer a choice to Kylo. He’s directionless: he needs crossroads.

“Marry me,” he blurts out.

Kylo’s head shoots up. He squeezes Armitage’s hand. Armitage steps so close their toes touch, arches up and takes hold of Kylo’s shoulders.

“Baby,” Kylo says. “What the hell?”

“Marry me,” Armitage stubbornly repeats. “It’s a logical course of action.”

“ _Logical_.” Kylo cups his face, his gaze flicking over his features. He looks bewildered. That wasn’t the goal. But he must be allowed to—“You’re proposing because it makes sense?”

“I’m proposing so you have an alternative to following unreliable emotions,” Armitage says. He realises that Kylo can, and might, say no. It seems fair, in a way: proposals always seem like a test when there’s only one correct answer. What would be a better dowry than complete freedom? He refused Kylo more than once: it lead them to where they are today, forged their relationship into something unbreakable. Armitage would be happy to call him his boyfriend for the rest of their continued existence, which might be cut quite short in any case, if an agreement is not made and the loathsome Resistance decides to assassinate them.

“You think a marriage proposal is an _alternative_ to emotional solutions,” Kylo says, fingers tightening around Armitage’s face. It makes him pout without meaning to. Kylo bows down, captures his lips with his. “Fuck, I love you,” he whispers into the kiss.

“We could start our own family,” Armitage explains, breath hot on Kylo’s mouth. Kylo nods and grins; Armitage can’t resist groping his firm arms. He wants him to accept. He wants him to have this so bad, he wants him happy, he—wants him. “You wouldn’t have to define yourself by where you come from,” he continues. “They could never break you. You’d be mine as I’d be yours. I wouldn’t let them take them what’s mine. I wouldn’t—”

Kylo kisses him again. Armitage wants to tell him how it feels, melting on his lips. How the place in his arms is where he’s safest. How he lost his home and found one in Kylo. He’d do anything to see him smile like this every day, first thing in the morning: he can’t believe it’s a privilege he has, can’t believe he’s allowed to touch and taste, listen and complain. His chest is bursting. “I’m so in love with you it’s disgusting,” he manages.

“I’m appalled,” Kylo whispers, licks into his lips. It makes Armitage weak. _Anything, anything, ask me anything—_ “I will give you the moons and stars,” Kylo says. “I will hand you their planets. If they won’t give it to us, let’s take them.”

“The stars will come to us,” Armitage says, hot breath ghosting over Kylo’s lips. “They will see us united in power and will want their share. They’ll see us and recognise their true leaders.”

Kylo goes in for a peck, pulls Armitage closer. “What if they don’t?”

“I don’t care,” Armitage says, just realising it. “I don’t, as long as I have you.” 

 

**Eleven Months Later**

_Supreme Leader Ren: one quick request_

_Supreme Leader Ren: smol change to outfit pls_

_Supreme Leader Hux: The ceremony is in an hour, dear._

_Supreme Leader Hux: ... your outfit, or mine?_

_Supreme Leader Ren: Mine._

_[Supreme Leader Ren has sent a picture.]_

_Supreme Leader Hux: OH_

_Supreme Leader Hux: Er, yes, that’s fine with me, if that’s what you’d like to do._

_Supreme Leader Hux: dont want 2 wrekc lines ;)_

_Supreme Leader Hux: This will be good for you?_

_Supreme Leader Ren: very_

_Supreme Leader Ren: ok for u?_

_[Supreme Leader Hux has sent a picture.]_

_Supreme Leader Hux: I’ll cope. ;)_

_*_

Armitage is resplendent, gorgeous, ethereal—every inch of him perfect and refined. They enter the newly renovated throne room on the Supremacy at the same time, but from opposites side of the room, and Kylo nearly stumbles over his own feet at the sight of his almost-husband. Armitage is wearing a black tunic, embroidered with gold down the center and along the edges, with high boots and skin-tight leather leggings. His cape has a high collar, and drapes down over his shoulders before flaring out behind him as he walks. They had paced the timing of the entrance out yesterday, drilled it over and over again until it was perfect, and still, Kylo’s feet catch and he hesitates—but Armitage notices it, from across the room, waits a moment for Kylo to recover—and then they continue their procession to the center, meeting in the middle of the hall.

(Kylo could see them in his peripheral vision if he looked—the entire military might of the First Order, from officers through to troopers down to the technicians, in their best uniforms, the atmosphere one of celebration instead of stilled military precision, every individual is illuminated by hovering chandeliers, and framed by the white curtains that cascade down from the ceiling only to puddle on the highly reflective black flooring. But Kylo doesn’t care to look. He doesn’t care to pull his eyes away from Armitage.)

They meet at the stairs leading to the two thrones, K4 between them. Kylo adjusts both their capes with the Force, letting the fabric billow out behind them even though there’s no breeze in the room. Everything is going exactly according to plan, the details all organized by Kylo to adhere to the vague ideas  Armitage had described—but Kylo trusts the plan, trust the months he’s sunk into this, trusts in the late nights he’s spent getting everything just the way Armitage dreams of having it.

Kylo’s balance feels uneven, as though there’s less gravity here than what he’s used to. Maybe it’s just the shock of seeing Armitage’s hair loose, instead of the slicked-back style he usually keeps it in. Maybe it’s the way the light is reflecting in his eyes. Maybe it’s—

Armitage’s mouth curves up, ever so slightly, at the corners. “You’re staring,” he says softly, lips hardly moving.

_You look gorgeous_ , Kylo projects, and Armitage responds with a wave of warmth, pleasure, affection. Between them, K4 raises his hands, steadies a surgical board between them.

“Thank you, Kayfour,” Armitage murmurs. He places his left hand palm-up on the surface, waits for Kylo to do the same. The medical droid perched on K4’s shoulder sanitizes them both. Afterwards, Kylo nudges his hand just a fraction closer to Armitage’s, so that their hands are touching along the length of their little fingers. Kylo inhales—the sharp tang of bacta and the cinnamon hint of Armitage’s cologne, and then, further out, the slight hint of greenery from the vines and flowers draped around the curtains.

Every single person in the room is watching them in enraptured silence.

(He’s glad of the last-minute modification to his outfit, for the steel cock cage he’s wearing beneath his silver-embroidered white robes, because his entire body is humming with pleasure at Armitage’s presence, and he knows that Armitage knows—but no one else needs to, because this is a thing that they can have for the two of them. Even though everything else is out in the open now—this part of their lives will always be speculation for everyone except the two of them.)

The medical droid projects an image down onto the ring fingers of their left hands. A solid band, nestled right at the base of the finger.

_Don’t cry_ , Armitage says through their Force bond. _You’ll get me started._

_I’m doing my best_ , Kylo responds—and he feels the answering press of Armitage’s hand against his own, right before the droid begins to tattoo their wedding bands onto their flesh. Armitage bears it stoically, as he bears everything—and Kylo’s eyes well up, watching Armitage’s face, watching the way the light reflects off his nearly-transparent lashes. His hair is long now, falling nearly to his shoulders, and he’s never looked so beautiful. There are a thousand colours reflected back at Kylo in his eyes—battleship grey and the green of the northern lights, the endless depths of the ocean on Starkiller, and the solid knowledge that this, now, is everything they could have ever wanted. Every single year of Kylo’s future is reflected back in Armitage’s eyes, and Kylo knows with a bone-deep certainty that he will never be alone for another day in his life.

This is the entire purpose of their struggle, he thinks as they turn their hands over, let the droid tattoo the remaining half of their promise rings. This is what everything he’s ever done in his life has been for. Every time he struggled to find out where he belonged, he just needed to follow his heart to the chip of ice that he found aboard the Finalizer, and then all he needed to do was to reach out, and warm Armitage’s heart between the palms of his hands until it thawed, melted, and blossomed.

The droid’s buzz ceases. Armitage clasps Kylo’s hand in his, the silver ring tattooed on his fourth finger glinting in the light, even as the gold one on Kylo’s glints on his own.

“That’s that, then,” Armitage says. “Thank you, K4.” He squeezes Kylo’s hand in his, and they turn to face the entirety of the First Order.

Most of the Order is here physically—they need them for what will come after—and the remainder are here by projection, watching the ceremony from wherever in the galaxy they are located. Some are openly smiling, others are stoic, but their excitement is tangible in the Force. Maratelle, Armitage’s stepmother, has tears in her eyes, and is clutching Allegient General Pryde’s arm.  Mitaka, standing next to her, has tears running down his face. Phasma’s armored fist is clenched, her hand over her heart.

This, right here, is the most important thing the Order has ever done or ever will do—more so than their continued existence, than Starkiller itself. More important, even, than their own marriage.

_I’m ready_ , Armitage projects, and Kylo squeezes Armitage’s hand in his.

_Go ahead_ , Kylo replies. _They’ll be able to hear you._

“We stand before you,” Armitage says effortlessly, his voice amplified by the Force, “not as Grand Marshal, nor as Master of the Knights of Ren, nor as any of our previous titles. We stand in front of you having risen up through the ranks of the First Order, having suffered and sacrificed for that Order. We stand before you as your Supreme Leaders—not only for the First Order, but for the might and glory of all that is to come. And there is so much left to do.” Armitage’s voice cracks, slightly, at this.

Kylo doesn’t think anyone will notice, but squeezes Armitage’s hand anyway, uses the Force to press gently against his lower back. _I’m here, I’m here. I support you._

Armitage hesitates a moment—an unplanned break—and then clears his throat, and continues to speak, his eyes moving across the room as he scans the entire crowd. This is a different speech than his regular speeches—he speaks, now, as he speaks to his beloved officers in times of quiet contemplation, with none of his regular intensity, but instead, a sense of quiet confidence, the weight of a long-held secret about to be shared. “This moment has been a long time coming. Many of us have spent our entire lives aboard ships, entire lifetimes running and hiding behind asteroids and dead rocks. We have raised our children as soldiers, we have trained countless technicians and troopers and officers, and we have done it in exile. We have achieved everything we set out to achieve knowing that our homes are nothing more than the coordinates of the places that our ships last were, that our loved ones are moving about the galaxy just as we are—endlessly, endlessly moving. That ends today.” Armitage squeezes Kylo’s hand before turning, and gesturing to the shaded transparisteel panels behind them that cloud the viewport.

It’s Kylo’s cue—he reaches out with the Force, drop the opacity of the viewport completely, so that they can all gaze on the planet below.

“Arkanis is below us,” Armitage says, voice gone soft, but still projected via Kylo across the entire width of the polished throne room. The room is so silent that a glove could be heard falling to the ground, and all eyes in the room are on Armitage, as they should be. “As of thirteen hundred hours today, it is the first planet which has voted to join the First Order—and, as such, it is the first planet upon which some of us will settle, though it shall not be the last. This planet is the first safe haven for us, for our children, and for our children’s children. Refugees of honour, children of the Empire, beings of the First Order—your wanderings are over. Welcome home.” There is a single tear making its way down Armitage’s face, glittering like a gem on his perfect alabaster skin. “This is my wedding gift to you, to the First Order, who has been my family all these years. On the eve of my wedding, I have re-established our Empire. Supreme Leader Ren and I have brought you home.”

Kylo takes a deep breath, looks down at their linked hands. Their wedding tattoos glint on their skin, and Kylo has never felt so settled as he feels right now.

(He’s never been this happy.)

He glances over at Armitage—and Armitage is smiling, a full, legitimate smile, even though they’re still in the middle of the ceremony. This is the most important thing that’s ever happened in their lives—and Armitage is _smiling_.

“Glory to the First Order,” Kylo murmurs.

“Glory to our Supreme Leaders,” the entire room responds in unison, their voices thundering through the vast throneroom before they raise their hands in a triumphant salute.

Armitage squeezes Kylo’s hand.

*

“Shit,” Kylo breathes as they step inside the honeymoon suite. “Did it look like this the first time around?”

“They’ve renovated,” Armitage says mildly. He glances around the room, then grins. “It’s much nicer, now.”

The room is, quite simply, absolutely stunning. The round hoverbed is massive, piled high with turquoise pillows, and lavishly covered with white flower petals, the entire thing bathed in the cool light of falling dusk. And Kylo’s husband is—

—stripping off his cape and unbuttoning his tunic to display his new nipple piercings.

Kylo’s tongue sticks in his mouth and he swallows audibly. He reaches down to adjust his cage, shudders as he does so.

Armitage turns to him, raises an eyebrow. “Something the matter, dearest?”

“I, uh,” Kylo says, his words deserting him. “You’re stunning.” He takes a step toward Armitage, and then another, and then—kneels on the floor, gazes up at his husband. “I love you,” he says.

Armitage smiles, closes the space between them, puts one hand on either side of Kylo’s face, and presses his lips to Kylo’s forehead. “Husband,” he says warmly, shifting his hands up and coming through Kylo’s hair with his fingers. “Now, as much as I want you on your knees, up you get. I’d like those robes off, love. Let me look at you.”

Kylo rises slowly to his feet, puts his hands on his neck, flexing his pecs. He uses the Force to loosen his own cape, let it fall to the floor, and then gestures to loosen his robes as well and let them drop, gasping a little as his bare cock is exposed to the still-warming air of the room. With a gesture, Kylo tints the privacy window just a little deeper, so that nothing going on outside the hotel room will be visible to them, so they can focus on each other, and block out the entire outside world. The space in the room seems vast, as if it was miles larger than the cramped quarters they shared on Starkiller—but they can close the distance anytime they like.

“Kylo,” Armitage purrs. “There’s certainly not much room in there for you, is there?” He steps closer, reaches for Kylo’s cage, cradles as much of it as he can fit into his palm while pressing his lips to Kylo’s.

Kylo kisses him back hungrily, his cock throbbing insistently against the unforgiving metal of the cage. Armitage’s tongue is in his mouth, and he can feel Armitage’s nipple piercings rubbing at his own chest. _want you so bad_ , he thinks. _need you._

Armitage moans against him, tugs at his hair with one hand and at the cage with the other, making Kylo gasp. “Go settle yourself on the bed, love,” he says, his mouth so close to Kylo’s that Kylo can feel his lips moving, can feel Armitage’s breath ghosting into his mouth. “Arrange the pillows how you like them. You’ve done so, so well today, Kylo—let me take you apart. You deserve a reward.”

“Need you,” Kylo breathes.

Armitage steps back, and Kylo sways after him a moment before he regains his balance.

“Go on, then,” Armitage says, voice low. “I won’t be long.”

“Supreme Leader,” Kylo says, and he bows, then grins up at his husband.

“Little shit,” Armitage says fondly, stepping close again and swatting Kylo, then digging his fingers in.

Kylo’s breath catches in his chest. “Fuck, that feels good,” he says.

Armitage grins at him. “Get your arse into bed.” He takes another step closer, slides his hand down Kylo’s side, grabbing Kylo’s ass and squeezing before letting go, and pressing a light kiss to Kylo’s temple. “Go on, now.”

Kylo makes a specific point of exaggerating his hip movements as he walks to the bed, crawling onto it, crushing little flower petals under his knees. The bed itself is exquisitely comfortable, and as Kylo starts moving soft velvet pillows aside, he realizes that only the ones on the top are decorative—the pillows hidden underneath are firm, geometrical shapes, similar to ones he’s seen in pornography that Armitage has shown him.

(Behind him, he hears the whoosh of the refresher door opening, and Armitage’s low whistle at whatever he sees within. Kylo hopes it’s good, whatever it is—and they have all the time in the world, this time.)

*

_This is it,_ Armitage thinks _. Not what I always wanted, but what I always deserved. I never dared to want._

His past: thinking he’d settle for anything less than Kylo—the best case scenario he used to have, marrying a fellow officer out of a mutual interest. Lying back. Closing his eyes. Thinking of Kylo Ren as he’s being penetrated by a half-hard cock, that gorgeous monster locked away from him, or lost, eternally: barred from him because of the mistakes they made, unforgivable.

The dread that he’d have to move on. That he wouldn’t be able to do it alone. That eventually, he’d have to find a replacement, knowing full well nothing and no one would measure up. That the man he loved and touched for the first time under desert stars was lost to him.

Kylo alone on his throne. Himself, in the prison of the Finalizer, but lightyears and the vastness of space weren’t enough to separate them. His escape to Starkiller. The months in the observatory. His birthday present: that Kylo would come back, reformed. Come around. Seek him out.

The fever that passed. How healing him healed everything. The hot springs. Later: the narrow bunk, covers wet from water, sweat, semen. Kylo taking him for the first time. Tears in his eyes.

_Carnal knowledge_ , he told Armitage. _Now you know me. Know me in a way no one else in the galaxy—_

_And I know you. You let yourself be known._

_Thank you, thank you, thank you_.

 He brushes his hair with his fingers, cascading down to his shoulders, a too-bright orange in the low light of the splendid refresher. His fingers rest on his collarbones, the glint of the tattooed promise ring matching the glint of the piercings. He’s glowing. He feels like there’s a light coming from inside. The illumination of an assurance: _he knows me_. He won’t be judged for—exploring, for being daring. He drops his hands, hisses as his knuckles brush past the piercings. _This is me: this can be me. I can be whatever bloody pleases me._

He always felt like people were staring. As if a security camera was always being pointed at his back. With publicity bigger than ever—he doesn’t care, because he’s safe as long as Kylo is watching, and Kylo will never ever turn his back to him. He’s made a promise today, a promise he’s been keeping.

Armitage is pulled to him, but needs a moment to collect himself, standing in front of the mirror in nothing but his leather leggings, his ceremonial robes abandoned on the floor outside. He should hang them up, but for now, he’ll relish in the power of negligence, that he won’t be faulted for being careless. Kylo will never judge him. He’s not being measured; he’s not found lacking. He’s being accepted. He’s still waiting for someone to tell him he can’t have this: that he should cut his hair, take out the metal bars, put on a uniform, stand in line. That his wedding night shall be conducted in his quarters, under covers, in the darkness, with a person he tolerates at best. That happiness is a privilege he hasn’t earned yet.

The freedom of the present moment is terrifying, overwhelming. He could stand here, breathing deep, and Kylo would wait as long as he needs. He’s given the luxury of time: the mad rush of the bridge is behind and ahead of him, and for now, he has this. He’s on leave. The weight of the galaxy is lifted from his shoulders; it feels like he’s cradling it to his chest, like Kylo is right beside him to help hold it, gaze upon their tremendous responsibilities and say, _we’ve got this_.

Any minute he chooses, he can step outside, and he will find his husband in bed, ready to accept whatever Armitage brings to their bedroom, provide him with what he needs, comfort or depravity. Kylo is his: he wants to take good care of him, indulge him, honour, praise, worship him, to somehow express the awe he feels every waking second and even in dreams, just to have him near, have him in his corner, have an ally, a comrade, a friend, a lover, a partner; have him now, forever.

He’s hard for him and his chest is bursting. He needs to grab the glass counter for a moment, bow his head. Sometimes it feels like the weight of his emotions will crush him. He can let himself be crushed. He will survive. Kylo will be there to resurrect what’s left, to pick him up and hold on tight.

_I’ve got you babe._

_I’ve got you._

_I’m here._

_Just you and me—_

He lets out a breath, splashes water on his face. Considers flushing the toilet so it sounds like he had a reason to come here, but he’s allowed his mental breakdowns in this relationship. He could come out with lips trembling and eyes wet with tears, and Kylo would open his arms for him, let him bury himself inside of him, find peace.

Armitage has never known what is it like to live without shame. But he’s proven himself, today: he’s given his people what he promised. They’re no longer a defeated army on the run. And Kylo—the prince of Alderaan, the heir of Naboo, the son of the people who had the power to shape the galaxy—Kylo loved him when he was a bastard, one of the generals, one of a number.

He thought he was special.

He was a general at twenty-nine, but what Kylo noticed was that he had a kind _voice_.

Armitage opens the topmost drawer. As requested to the hotel’s staff, he finds a package there. He peels away the silky flimsy, touches the fabric of his old, pleated robe. Pulls it out, drapes it over his shoulders.

It feels like his greatcoat, in a way; feels just as significant as the cape of his Grand Marshal uniform. It marks him for his new position: husband. That role is whatever he makes it to be: it’s up to him to fill it with respect and dignity, to let it accomodate the love he feels, represent his gratefulness, to show the promise: _I care about you, Kylo Ren, I always cared._

_I’ll take such good care of you._

He ties the belt loosely. Peels off the leather leggings, his underwear, the sock, the garters. Combs out his hair once again.

Objective: _be the man Kylo deserves. Spoil him rotten._

“Look at you,” Armitage murmurs as he steps out of the refresher.

Kylo looks over at Armitage, and his hands still, the gentle swirl of flower blossoms above him freezing in mid-air as he gazes upon the ethereal beauty that is his husband.

“Look at yourself,” Kylo says. “You look marvellous.” Armitage is standing in the doorway to the refresher, backlit from the warm light pouring out from within. He’s barefoot, now, wrapped up in the black silk robe that Kylo still obsesses over, no matter how many times he sees it, no matter that he’s traced the nudity underneath it with his fingers and his tongue and the head of his cock, has nipped at the flesh with his teeth and then soothed it back over with his hands. Every single time, it feels new. Every single time, he falls in love with Armitage deeper, and he’s not scared by the depth of it. He’s not scared by any of it, and he knows that Armitage isn’t scared of him. They belong together.

(They are promised to each other, in front of the entirety of the First Order. They are husbands, now. This is Kylo’s family.)

Armitage crawls up on the bed, and straddles Kylo, leaning down to kiss him. “There’s lube on the bedside table,” he says softly. “No, don’t look, just reach—two bottles, one silicone and one water-based. Tug the silicone one over here.”

Kylo closes his eyes, kisses his husband. Feels out the dimensions of the bottle with the Force, the comparative densities of the fluids within, and then floats the heavy glass bottle of silicone lube over, placing it gently into Armitage’s left hand.

“Good,” Armitage says fondly. He sits up, kneels between Kylo’s legs, and runs the backs of his hands up and down Kylo’s thighs. His eyes are wide, his mouth slightly open, hair loose around his face, and there’s an air of vulnerability about him—but, also, determination, and love, and something that might be admiration. (Kylo can feel his heartbeat through the Force, and it is steady and reliable and calming. His eyes are shining, and he’s never looked so beautiful.) “Knees to your chest, love. Let me see.”

Kylo shudders, spreads his legs and pulls his knees back, using the Force to tug a pillow under his back to tilt himself up at the right angle. The metal of his cage is hot against his skin, and he can feel his cock leaking inside.

“There you are,” Armitage murmurs, flipping open the bottle of lube, and liberally coating his fingers. The lube he’s selected glitters in the light, little gold flecks that shimmer down the length of Armitage’s fingers, and it makes it hard for Kylo to breath. Before long, the gold will be everywhere, and they’ll be anointed in luxury, a celebration of their joining, an indulgence in opulence that they deserve, after everything. Armitage tips his fingers, considering, and then pours more lube onto them before reaching down, and placing the pads of them against Kylo’s hole.

Kylo shudders. He’s so sensitive, and he wants this so much—wants everything Armitage will give him, even though he knows they have the rest of their life, that they have all the time they want even though time still feels so, so precious. (They almost lost this, _he_ almost lost this for them, and Kylo won’t ever forget it, will spend the rest of his life treasuring every moment with his husband.) He shifts his feet, wraps them around Armitage’s torso, and presses back against Armitage’s fingers. “More,” he breathes. “Armitage, please.”

“Tell me what you want,” Armitage says softly. He’s still only applying the lightest pressure against Kylo, and Kylo feels as though he might die of it, the anticipation and the longing and the hope, absolutely everything all wrapped up together.

“I want this,” Kylo says honestly. “Whatever you want to do to me, whatever you want me to give you. I just—this is everything to me, I want you so badly, Armitage. Fuck me, please.” He rocks back against Armitage’s fingers again.

Armitage grins at him wickedly, applies a bit of pressure with his fingers—and then stops, sits back, thumb stroking at Kylo’s hole contemplatively, but with no sense of urgency. “Your thighs are shaking,” he says. “Are you sure you’re doing alright?”

“I—” Kylo starts—and then his voice cracks, and he shuts his mouth, tries to get ahold of himself. His cock is a dull pressure between his legs, the weight of the cage pressing him back on the bed, and it feels like his entire body is hypersensitive, tuned to the feel of his husband’s skin against his own. He wants this to be perfect, like the ceremony was, wants this to be exactly what Armitage wants, wants the rest of their lives together to be exactly—

“Shhh,” Armitage soothes. “We have all night, love. And tomorrow, as well. There’s no rush or anything here. We have plenty of time. Tell me what it is.”

“Did I do okay?” Kylo blurts. He doesn’t even know what he means, not really—because it feels like it’s everything all at once, all his worries and fears colliding in on him all at the same time. _Did I pick the right venue for the wedding, are you pleased with the length of the ceremony, should I have stayed with you on the planet, is it okay that we’re honeymooning here, did I do good for you?_

“Oh, sweetheart,” Armitage says. “Do you want to know how I experienced my day today?”

“Please keep touching me,” Kylo says, tugging Armitage in a little closer with his heels. “But yes.”

“When I woke up this morning,” Armitage says, stroking his thumb against Kylo’s hole, his other hand gripping Kylo’s thigh to ground him, “I had the utmost pleasure of watching my husband come out of the shower stark naked.”

Kylo’s face burns. He turns his face toward the pillow—but then his circlet starts to slip off, and he can’t see his husband's face if he does that, so he bites his lip, and turns back to Armitage, studies the way his lips move as he talks, the sheen of his hair in the light.

“I attended a wedding this morning that I had a very minimal part in planning—my own wedding, I should add,” Armitage says, pressing in against Kylo, and then ducking his head to drop a kiss to Kylo’s knee. “And everything was absolutely perfect. I wed the love of my life in front of the entirety of the First Order, and my husband was absolutely stunning. I presented a planet—an entire planet—to my people as a dowry. Who can say that about their wedding, honestly? And now I’m here, with you—I’m _married_ to you—and we’re going to fuck, and eat expensive food, and luxuriate in the fantastic tub they have in the next room, and it is going to be marvellous.”

Kylo exhales, a long shuddering breath. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

Armitage squeezes his thigh gently. “You didn’t sleep much last night, did you.”

“Wanted everything to be perfect for you,” Kylo says, voice more uneven than he would like—but open, and raw, because he can be, because it’s safe. “I was so, so scared I was going to fuck it up again.” He reaches down, grasps Armitage’s hand in his. Their rings are touching, gold against silver, one against the other, Armitage Hux’s hand in his own. “Also, you’re cute when you sleep. You snore.”

“I do not!” Armitage exclaims, aghast. “How dare.” He swats Kylo’s thigh lightly, and Kylo lets his leg fall open anyway, as an acquiescence—but the movement makes his cage shift, and his breath catches in his throat, and he groans.

“Mmmm,” Armitage says. He brings his fingers to the metal, runs his fingertips against the bars. “Stars, this looks uncomfortable.”

“It’s—not,” Kylo manages. “It’s a lot, but—but so are you.” He takes another deep breath. It feels like his head is spinning, even though he’s lying down, even though the hoverbed is perfectly stationary. Tilts his hips to rub himself up against Armitage’s fingers again. “I’d like—to be overwhelmed by it, right now. Husband? Can you—?”

“My treasure,” Armitage says, inserting the tip of his ring finger. The silver glows as he caresses Kylo inside, lubing him up. He feels delicious around him, tight and hot and ready. The wide expanse of Kylo’s chest is heaving as he’s laid out long on the pillows; the strong muscles of his abdomen contort when Armitage works in a second finger, and Kylo’s mouth goes slack.

“Fuck,” he grunts.

His hair is in his yellow eyes, the scar matching the blush on his cheeks.

“We barely started and you look thoroughly fucked out,” Armitage teases, tapping at his prostate lightly. “I like that.”

Kylo nudges him with a knee. “Shut up,” he grits.

“I thought you liked to hear my voice when I do this,” Armitage says, and starts moving his fingers, out and in, the lube squelching wetly. “And this.” He presses a thumb under the cock cage and watches Kylo squirm.

“Stars!”

“You must feel quite delicate,” Armitage admits, pressing harder. “I’ve been neglecting you lately.”

“We’ve been—it’s okay, we’ve been—busy. Fuck, I have you here, I have—”

“We have all day. Would it be okay if I took advantage of it? If I picked you apart at my pace—or do you need me too badly, do you need me—”

“Ruin me,” Kylo blurts, making Armitage shudder. He licks his lips and twists his fingers, and sighs when Kylo gasps.

“It’s alright. Would you hold yourself open for me, please? That’s it, keep your hands there.”

Kylo pulls him closer with his legs wrapped around his hips.

“Show me,” he croaks. “Your cock, I want to see—”

“My pace,” Armitage reminds him, thrusts in sharp: a warning. Kylo arches his back, clenches around his fingers, invites him deeper. “I’ll give you everything you ask for, just wait a little longer, can you hold out for me, puppy?”

“Yes, I—yes—”

Armitage dips down to kiss his chest, right above his heart, then looks at him from beyond his lashes, fingers working, relentless.

“Look at me.”

“Mmmm?” Kylo blinks, tries to focus. Armitage’s fingers are focused on his prostate, rubbing steadily, and it’s sending electrical sparks up Kylo’s spine, a pulsation of pleasure within the Force coming directly from Armitage into him, curling around his skeleton and then skittering out into the rest of his body. The flower petals around them keep—vibrating, shifting every time Kylo moves. Armitage’s hair is brushing against his chest, the soft locks of it sliding against his skin, reflecting the light back. There’s a little gold shimmer of lube up by his ear, and Kylo will wash it out of his hair later, scratch his nails against Armitage’s scalp.

(He can feel his heartbeat in his caged cock, the potential energy restricted by metal, held retained within, like the entire interior of a sun has been pulled inside him and Armitage is the one who is going to release it.)

Armitage’s fingers suddenly still inside him, and Kylo _whines_.

“Shh, shh,” Armitage says, sitting up, and shifting his fingers inside. “You’ll get what you need.”

“I trust you,” Kylo says, voice cracking. “I’m listening, Armitage.”

“Good,” Armitage says warmly, pressing his weight into his hand again, shifting his fingers inside Kylo and bringing his other hand between his legs. “Take my robe off.”

Kylo’s eyelids flutter as he gathers his concentration. He has to be careful, cautious, gentle with this—to use the Force exactly as Armitage wants it to be used, and what Armitage wants is a delicate touch, right at his collarbones, caressing his skin. The gentle slide of the silk down one narrow shoulder, and then the other. The soft whisper of the belt untying. And then, as Armitage rises up onto his knees, the exposure of his hard fat cock, standing out proudly from his body.

“Oh, fuck,” Kylo curses, the robe stopped on its descent down Armitage’s arms as Kylo loses all ability to concentrate for a moment. “Your cock, I—oh, fuck, it’s gorgeous. I love your cock so much.”

Armitage gently pulls his fingers from inside Kylo, leans down to press a kiss against Kylo’s inner thigh before pouring more lube onto his fingers, and then pressing them right back inside. “Look at you,” he says, voice gentle and soft as he settles back down onto the bed, his cock obscured, again, from Kylo’s view. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. You nearly undid me with your pre-ceremony texts...so, if I want to take my time here...you can, er—you can manage the wait?”

“Anything for you,” Kylo says honestly—and he’s never said anything more true in his life. This is everything—Armitage is everything—and he’s willing to do whatever Armitage needs, is willing to relax into whatever it is that Armitage wants, make sure that he can have it. It’s worth it, to have everything humming under his skin, to have everything contained, to be freed at his husband’s will.

(It’s the most worthwhile thing in the world.)

“How does it feel,” Armitage asks curiously, “being locked up like that?” His fingers are still working between Kylo’s legs, gently but firmly, sending continuous sparks of pleasure up Kylo’s spine.

Kylo groans, closes his eyes and lets his head sink back into the pillow. “It’s like,” he says, struggling for the words. “Like my whole body is—oriented toward you. It’s like the Force is—emanating from me, I’m—I can feel every time you exhale on my skin, I can feel—your heartbeat. My own heartbeat. Everything you’ve given me is—” Embarrassingly, Kylo’s voice cracks. He swallows, tries to struggle through it. “—just so _nice_.”

There’s a sudden withdrawal of pressure, and then Armitage is leaning over him again, hair falling on either side of his face as he presses his forehead against Kylo’s, kisses him gently. “You know you deserve those things, right?” He rolls his hips, his hard cock rubbing up against Kylo’s hip bone, his dry hand rubbing at Kylo’s earlobe. “You did so well today, and you look so handsome now, all laid out for me.”

“Love your hair like this,” Kylo murmurs.

Armitage beams at him, face going pink. “Thank you,” he says, kisses the tip of Kylo’s nose. “Thank you so much.” Then he ducks his head, nips at Kylo’s neck, runs his hand down Kylo’s side to his hip.

Kylo can still feel Armitage’s cock nudging at him, foreskin shifting slightly as Armitage moves, adjusts his limbs until he’s back between Kylo’s legs, biting at his lower lip, his hand splayed over Kylo’s hip, and fingertips just barely touching the cage.

“I’m glad I wore it,” Kylo says. “You’re stunning, I wouldn’t have been fit to be seen in public without the cage.”

“Only by me,” Armitage says—and then he shifts in closer, rubs the head of his prick against Kylo’s thigh. “Fuck, you feel so nice against me.”

“Need you so much,” Kylo says—but he does his best to relax anyway, closing his eyes and breathing deep, letting everything he can’t contain within himself disperse into the room at large.

“Need you too,” Armitage replies. He shifts on the bed, hand going between his own legs for a moment, and sighs. “I have something for you,” he says, running his hand down Kylo’s leg again. “After this. Something new.” He looks up at Kylo, raises his eyebrows and taps his forehead. “Do you want to know in advance?”

Kylo shakes his head, rubs his foot up against Armitage’s thigh. “Surprise me,” he breathes.

Armitage pulls his fingers back, scissors them: they’re dripping with lube, and when he pushes them back, Kylo is loose and relaxed.

“Mm, taking me so good,” Armitage says. “My pretty boy.”

Kylo clenches around his fingers at that. Armitage soothes him with a tender rub, thinks about all the delicious ways he’s going to indulge him; but taking in the moment — taking in this: being buried in him without sharing the taste of pleasure. An act of service, of adoration.

“Pretty boys like you deserve to be fucked well,” he says.

Kylo moans as if to prove his point, impossible lashes fluttering closed. Armitage reaches out with his clean hand, cradles his darling face for a moment, runs a finger down his nose. His thumb comes to rest on Kylo’s obscene lips: he sucks at it.

“You know just what I need,” Armitage whispers. “I taught you how to please me, and my clever boyfriend was quick to learn. I reckon you enjoyed your education.”

Kylo bites down at his digit, looks up at him. He looks exquisite, eyes burning. “You made me like this, huh? You made me—ahh!”

He bears down on Armitage’s fingers working him open. Armitage gasps. “I think,” he says softly, “I unlocked something within.” He spares a glance at the cock cage, mouth getting dry.

 Kylo hums and smiles, head lolling back on the pillow.

“Something wild,” he muses, voice a slurred rumble that reverberates through Armitage. “Something untamed and free—I felt it overtake me, I feel it—every time you touch me, an awakening—like I—there’s a calling and you remember my name—” He takes him in deeper. “Something in you calls to something in me.”

“Are we back to mysticism?” Armitage muses. The flower petals are floating around them in the air, gleaming in the glow.

“Science,” Kylo says, addressing the ceiling. His eyes are open but unseeing; he’s lost to sensation. “This is science—the stardust we’re all made of, yours and mine mingled—I know we were born from the same explosion, I _know—_ I can feel our atoms pull, I can—we were made to unite again—”

“Ever the poet,” Armitage says, pulling out his fingers with a lingering regret, grieving every moment they’re not joined, even as he grabs his cock to smear lube over it, line up, get ready. Even as he watches the blunt head press to Kylo’s entrance, something feels _lacking_ until he’s inside of him, until they melt together with a press of his hips. Armitage catches Kylo’s legs as he kicks out involuntarily.

“I’ve got you,” he says. He’s—a sceptic, he’s not sure about the idea of people made for each other; a laughable sentiment, yet as he holds on to Kylo, fucking deeper, he understands.

The stretch of it is magnificent, Armitage’s cock fully inside him like this, their bodies, their souls, their _hands_ united, promise rings rubbing against each other as Kylo clutches at Armitage’s hand. The slight burn of entry is almost immediately lost to sheer pleasure as Kylo’s husband shifts inside him, small movements that send his long hair swinging back and forth as he moves, his teeth bitten into his lower lip and his face and chest flushed, nipples peaked and the silver bars glinting in the light. Kylo plants his feet on the bed, tilts his hips a little to give Armitage better access, and Armitage gasps, his rhythm stuttering a moment before he picks it up again, fucking into Kylo a little harder.

(Kylo’s cock is aching and leaking, precome smearing onto his bare pelvis. The cage shifts a little every time Armitage fucks into him, and his balls are dense, heavy, neutron stars just barely contained by his cage. It’s almost too much—it’s nearly not enough—and he knows that Armitage won’t give him more than what he can handle, he knows that he can tap out of this if he needs to, he knows that the cage will come off when he’s ready, but he wants to wait, he wants to wait—they are synchronized, joined by the universe, they are everything together, all at the same time, an entire vast galaxy and their energies reaching out to each other and coming together one more time—)

There it is: the first solar wind of pleasure washing over both of them. Armitage knows how to ride it out, how to take shelter in Kylo’s flesh. He slides his hands up to Kylo’s kneecaps, holds on just a little tighter as the bliss gets brighter.

He rolls his hips slowly, and the radiance doesn’t recede, threatens to overpower him. He breathes deep; wills himself to still, but his body moves with the keenness of aftershocks, thighs trembling and erect cock still slipping inside, out, and he can’t stop—can’t still—why would he, why would he want discipline when he can just have this, Kylo’s welcoming wetness and heat?

Kylo is pilant below, putting himself on _display_ as he twists, writhes, offering everything he has, except that one thing he can’t, his cock locked like a surprise they can soon share. The rattle of the cage is driving Armitage insane, the idea that Kylo is _tamed_ for him, that he’s _behaving_ , that all this power is submitted to Armitage and his small cock, his slight frame, as Kylo, this absolute brute, moves and moans, chasing his denied orgasm.

Armitage lets go of his knees and bends forward, grabs his pectorals instead, fondles then squeezes them, enjoying their firmness.

“I can’t believe I’m getting hoverboated on my wedding night,” Kylo slurs. Puts his massive palms over Armitage’s narrow hands, guides them to grip harder.

“I can’t believe you’re not getting hoverboated _constantly_ ,” Armitage pants, picking up the pace despite the tightening in his testicles; he’s _got this_. “Why the fuck—am I not spending every waking moment fucking you—”

“Beats me,” Kylo breathes, gives him that mischievous little half-smile Armitage can never resist, his canine teeth showing and something shy in his eyes. Armitage dips down to kiss him, clawing at his chest as he’s rutting in and out.

“I should just keep you on my cock the entire time,” he pants, making sure to exaggerate his accent a little, revel in the effect it has on Kylo: how his breath hitches, how he goes a little cross-eyed as he looks up at Armitage.

“It’s our honeymoon,” he says, “so I hope that’s the, uh, plan.”

Armitage’s hips twitch up into him, and he’s ready to say something—what he’s not ready for is this: his climax hitting him just as he parts his lips, his reply lost to a cry as he starts spilling his come.

 The orgasm takes him by surprise, and he pulls out as if it could change anything, and he’s—not fully aware of the position he’s in, apart from the fact that he managed to get to his hands and knees, that he’s—looking down and staring at his dick, and his—

“Pfassk.”

—load covering Kylo’s cock cage.

“Shit,” he adds. “Shit, I—was going to last—”

“It’s alright,” Kylo says. He sounds rough. Armitage looks at his face and can’t help but grin at his wide-eyed expression, even though his head is spinning and he’s weak, and he’s still—

“That was—” Kylo goes on, keeping his gaze fixed on the ceiling, clutching the sheets. “That was—the hottest shit ever—I just —physically can’t _—_ the cage _—_ fuck!”

“Look at me,” Armitage says softly. Kylo obeys in a blink, takes him in, eyes flicking over his face.

“More,” he pleads.

“I’ve just given you my come.”

“More.”

“My _seed_.”

Kylo cants his hips up, whines.

“There’s a refractory period,” Armitage goes on explaining even as he sits back on his heels, his body pleasantly buzzing. Reaches for the soaked cage—and oh, he’ll remember this, always, always, his debauched husband at his mercy, whimpering for it. He strokes his trembling thighs, hushes him, makes him still.

“That’s it, that’s it. Be good for me. You’re doing so well, Kylo.”

“Can I please come?” Kylo asks, head rolling to a shoulder and eyes half-shut. His hair is getting gorgeously tousled, there’s sweat glistening on his chest—no way Armitage is not going to _savour_ that.

“Soon,” he promises, presses a gentle thumb to the cage’s lock. The tiny mechanism scans his fingerprint, unlock with a soft click. “Can you hold out for me just a little longer, darling?”

Kylo nods, mouths _okay_. Armitage presses a kiss to his knee as he maneuvers the cage off him, with great care and the delicacy such a good boy like Kylo deserves. Surveys the damage: Kylo’s swollen, but mostly soft cock, red and wrinkled—he’ll have to take care of that. He begins with cupping it with his warm palm, and hushes Kylo again as he sobs.

“I’ve got you.”

“Armitage,” Kylo breathes, and Armitage answers by gently squeezing his newly-released cock.

“I’m right here,” his husband says. “I’ve got you.”

“H-holy fuck,” Kylo slurs. He shuts his eyes, reaches out and grasps Armitage’s wrist in his hand. “Stay a second.” His cock isn’t awake, not yet—but he can feel his heartbeat echoing dully in it, can feel everything tingling, just slightly, as he adjusts to no longer being constricted by the cage.

“I never said I was going anywhere,” Armitage says, his tone playful and affronted at the same time.

“You were thinking about washing your hands,” Kylo says. He lifts his other hand, wiggles his fingers lightly. “I could sense it.”

Armitage chuckles, settles back down between Kylo’s legs. He’s stroking Kylo’s cock gently with his thumb, dragging it through his own spend, and Kylo feels every feather-light touch of it. It feels, now, like it felt back at the hot springs, like it felt on Starkiller—like a slow re-awakening, coming back fully into his own body, but—but better, this time, because this isn’t a thing he did in spite of himself—this time, the cage was something that he did for both of them, and both of them have benefited from it.

He shifts on the bed, feeling something—slick, or something of Armitage—between his legs.

“I could wash you,” Armitage offers, voice low. “Clean up everything here—I know you like to be clean.”

“I’m getting used to it,” Kylo says.

“But?”

Kylo opens his eyes, gazes blearily down at his husband. Armitage’s eyes are bright, his mouth relaxed, sex-flush receding from his face a bit. “I’m not gonna want to get out of bed,” he admits.

“Nor should you have to,” Armitage says. He leans forward, brushes his lips against Kylo’s. “You should stay right where you are, beautiful.”

Kylo sighs, luxuriates in the praise. The sheets feel amazing underneath his body, and Armitage is glorious, unselfconscious in his nudity as he gets up from the bed, stretches, and then heads for the refresher, his cock soft and adorable between his legs. He looks so _proud_ of himself, and Kylo can’t help but stare after him.

(That man is his _husband_ , he’s married to _Armitage Hux_.)

“You should put your arms above your head for me,” Armitage suggests from the refresher.

Kylo smirks, does as he’s asked. “You can’t even see me from there,” he calls. “I could be disobeying you right now.”

Fuck, he feels so sensitive. He’s not hard—he can see clearly that he’s not hard, cock lying limp across his hip—but he feels the weight of his arousal in his gut anyway, feels that humming up and down his spine, the way his breath keeps catching in his lungs—he feels like he’s close to orgasm anyway, even though his dick hasn’t caught up, like his entire body is humming with it and he’s—

“How dare,” Armitage says, coming out of the refresher with a wet cloth in one hand, and a handtowel thrown over his shoulder. “And on our wedding day.” He makes eye contact with Kylo, and then deliberately looks him up and down. “Lovely,” he declares, pupils dilated and tongue darting out to lick his lower lip.

Kylo grins at him, flexes his pecs, enjoying the little shudders of arousal that run up and down his body when he does. “Yeah?”

“Now you’re just showing off,” Armitage teases. He climbs back onto the hoverbed, runs his cool fingertips down Kylo’s chest, and then follows with a warm washcloth, dragging it down Kylo’s sternum to his pelvis.

“Fuck,” Kylo gasps. “Armitage.”

Armitage tilts his head, looks at Kylo. “Oh,” he says, voice gone low. “That’s very good for you, isn’t it?”

“It’s a normal amount of—oh, holy fuck, Armitage!” Kylo’s lower back arches off the bed a moment as he shudders at the touch of the washcloth on his cock. “Okay, yes, it’s very—it’s very good, it’s very—holy shit. It’s good.”

“Is it very good?” Armitage teases, and then he runs the washcloth over Kylo’s cock again.

Kylo turns his head, presses his face into the pillow, his entire body alight with pleasure. He can’t believe this is a thing he used to deny himself, that this was ever a thing he thought he shouldn’t have. “So good,” he gasps into the pillow, finally. “My whole body—everywhere—touch me with your hands?”

There’s an odd pressure on his pelvis, and Kylo raises his head from the pillow, looks down—only to find Armitage sitting there, naked, cross-legged, and smug, pressing the tip of his pinky finger into Kylo’s skin. He winks at Kylo, and then brings both hands to Kylo’s cock, one cupping the soft shaft, and the other gently massaging his balls.

“I think,” Armitage says playfully, “getting you fresh out of the cage is the only time I’ll ever be able to fit your whole cock in my hand.”

“Don’t worry, my whole cock fits real nice in your ass,” Kylo teases. He rolls his hips, presses up into Armitage’s palm. It feels like his skin is electrified, like he’s been edging for hours.

Armitage raises his eyebrows. “It does,” he says. “But that’s because I trained, extensively, to be able to handle someone of your...caliber. I wanted to make sure I was prepared.”

“Been training a lot, huh? Dreamed about it?” Kylo asks, half-joking and half-enamoured, captivated by the careful way in which Armitage is touching him, the delicacy with which Armitage cleans him up, makes him comfortable again—and then just keeps touching him, even in absence of an erection, just because he knows Kylo likes to be touched.

“Constantly,” Armitage confirms. “Supreme Leader Ren’s cock, top of my daily agenda.” He ticks off an imaginary item, and then looks down at his hand. “Well, well, well,” he says. Squeezes his hand gently, grip firm and stable and everything Kylo needs.

“Supreme Leader Hux—”

“Yes,” Armitage growls.

“Touch me, please—more, I want—” Kylo takes a shuddering breath, writhes in the sheets as he tries to figure out what he even needs, other than to be touching Armitage, to be fucked by Armitage, to be fucking Armitage, Armitage, Armitage—

“I know,” Armitage says, running his hand loosely up and down Kylo’s shaft, before bending nearly in half, exhaling over the tip of Kylo’s hardening cock. “You’re doing so well. I love how you ache for me.”

“Please,” Kylo begs, reaching out and pressing his bare foot against Armitage. “It’s so much—I feel close—I want—I want whatever you give me. I want to come, but I want it when you’re ready—I want to do good for you. Will you make me come, when I’ve earned it?”

“I can,” Armitage says, eyes sparkling. “And I have a specific way I’d like you to get there, if you’re up for it.”

“I am,” Kylo says immediately.

“You don’t even know what it is,” Armitage scolds. He swats at Kylo’s cock lightly.

Kylo inhales sharply, bites down on his lip, shuddering. He can feel precome oozing from the tip of his cock, and his eyes roll back in his head when he feels Armitage’s tongue there immediately, lapping it up. “I’ll die,” he groans, throwing his arm over his face. “Armitage, have mercy.”

“That’s not your safeword,” Armitage teases. He reaches up, tugs at Kylo’s hand. “Let me watch you,” he says. “I promise, I’ll make you come so hard, it’ll be exactly what you need.” He looks down between Kylo’s legs, frowns. “Sorry, this is cold.”

Kylo makes a face as the washcloth goes between his legs again, pressing up against his hole.

“Are you sore?” Armitage asks.

“Empty,” Kylo says. “Fingers?” He reaches down between his legs, carefully drags his fingers, feather-light, up the shaft of his cock. “I need it, Armitage. I’ve been—waiting so long, please—touch me? Put your fingers inside me?”

Armitage grins at him, gets up onto his knees. “I can do you one better than that,” he offers. “Close your eyes.”

Kylo glances between Armitage’s legs, where his fat cock is still hanging, soft. “But I—”

“Close your eyes, Kylo,” Armitage repeats. He shuffles up the bed, puts his fingertips on Kylo’s eyelids, and gently closes them. Strokes Kylo on the cheek. “Stay there, now. Listen closely, and tell me what I’m doing.”

Kylo absently touches his cock again as he listens to the shift of the bedclothes, the soft pad of Armitage’s footsteps on the parquetry as he moves across the room. “Getting off the bed...walking across the room...opening the luggage…” He tries to place the indistinct sounds. “...getting dressed?”

“Close,” Armitage says. “Keep your eyes shut—though you can keep fondling your cock if you like.” There’s a faint whirring sound, almost instantly muffled. “Actually, you should definitely keep touching your cock.”

Kylo curls his fingers around his shaft, cants his hips in the direction Armitage’s voice is coming from. “You like that?” he asks, slightly out of breath from the pleasure, the way his heart pounds in his chest, and arousal coils in his gut. His cock is hard and hot in his hand, and he shifts so that his fingers are only wrapped around the base, leaving the shaft visible for Armitage to look all he wants. “Look what you’ve made of me. Look what you’ve allowed me to become.”

“Mine,” Armitage says firmly, his voice getting closer to the bed again. “I’ve made you _mine_.” His footsteps get closer, and then there’s a slight sound as he crawls back up onto the bed. “Open your mouth, love,” he says. “Get me wet.”

Kylo opens his mouth, expecting skin, expecting Armitage brushing his foreskin against Kylo’s lips—and what he gets, instead, is an inorganic material, soft but firm, pressing against his mouth, wider than he expected. He tightens his hand around the base of his cock, licks out with his tongue.

“That’s it,” Armitage purrs, rubbing at the edge of Kylo’s mouth. “Open wide for me, sweetheart.”

Kylo drops his jaw, lets Armitage press a little further inside. It’s a plug, it must be—and a broad one at that, stretching his mouth wide, nudging at the back of his throat. It’s exactly what he needs. He blinks back involuntary tears, tries to picture how small Armitage’s hand will look wrapped around the base of it, how Armitage’s bicep will flex as he works the plug inside Kylo. Maybe he’ll let Kylo fuck him like this, the plug deep inside him, and his cock deep inside Armitage—

(It’s an awfully long plug…)

Armitage rubs at the corner of Kylo’s mouth again, brushes Kylo’s hair back off his forehead with his other hand, which means he’s not holding the plug with his hands, he’s—

Kylo opens his eyes, and his mouth goes dry immediately.

The toy isn’t a plug.

Not even close.

It’s a strap-on, harnessed with gold-embossed leather right to Armitage’s hips. Armitage himself is grinning smugly down at Kylo, and as Kylo watches, he tilts his hips, nudges the dildo just a little further inside Kylo’s mouth.

“Do you like it?” he asks. And, “have you recognized it yet?”

“It’s mine,” Kylo croaks around the tip.

“Ours,” Armitage corrects, letting the replica of Kylo’s cock slide out of his mouth as he twirls a silky lock of hair around his finger. “Ours to play with.”

He sits back on his heels, lets Kylo take a good look at it. He knows it looks immense on him, framed by his narrow hips. It took him a while to get used to the weight the first time he tried it on, when Kylo wasn’t home. He was wearing it for just a couple of hours, doing chores, finalizing concepts for the wedding reception; it wasn’t supposed to be sexual, but he did end up fucking the blue couch, that snug little place where pillow and pillow meet, because the experiment proved to be more arousing than hypothesized. To have Kylo’s cock on him, with him; to _possess_ it—and how he had to hurry and hide it so he wouldn’t ruin the surprise.

Kylo touches it reverently with his fingertips, a look of puzzled awe on his face. This is the reaction Armitage hoped for; he lets Kylo learn its familiar shape but foreign texture, watches his thick fingers curl around the base, stroke experimentally. It sends a rush of arousal up his spine, as if the dildo was really his cock, hot and hard from Kylo’s touch.

“How does it feel?” Kylo asks roughly. Kriff. Just one dip inside his mouth, and he already sounds fucked-out, throat raw.

“You remember those tiny little gelatin beads I showed you?”

Kylo’s eyes widen. “Yes?”

“There’s a handful of them inside,” Armitage says, wriggles a bit to feel them slide against his shaft, sticky and slick, coat his stiffening cock thickly. “It’s nice and wet here. They can vibrate.”

“Innovative as always,” Kylo muses, and Armitage beams at the praise. Kylo slides a finger down the opaque white shaft, teasing up to the tip. It makes the beads roll deliciously. “Looks like the ghost of a dick.”

Armitage snorts. “You said you didn’t want it to be too life-like.”

“Yeah, this should be the one and only,” Kylo murmurs, gives his cock a lazy yank. Armitage shivers, barely resists to crane his neck and _stare—_ but he wouldn’t be able to resist, he’d have to sit on it, and he wants Kylo to have this, wants to give him something _singular_ and significant, something he’s been begging for. “You didn’t tell me it’d be ready for the wedding. You said it’s gonna take a couple of weeks to make.”

“It’s a surprise,” Armitage says softly. Kylo’s eyes are bright, hungry, the dark pupils eclipsing the yellow iris so they’re framed only by the red. He looks ravenous, possessed.

“You wouldn’t mind?” he asks, puts a calloused hand over Armitage’s soft arse. Pulls him closer, the dildo bobbing with the movement, then opens his mouth—swallows it up. Armitage can hear the wet slide of Kylo’s hand on his dick, toying with his cock as he sucks on the replica, kneading Armitage’s cheek. 

“I want it just as much as you did,” Armitage admits breathlessly. He savours the weight of Kylo’s hand, how it cradles his backside, and the tightness of his mouth—the barrier is too thick, he can’t feel much, but the gelatin beads follow Kylo’s rhythm, sliding up and down his forming erection. “When I first suggested it—the look on your face—and the thing with the alginate—”

Kylo laughs around the dildo, a sound that always makes Armitage’s chest clench, pulls back to peer at him. The glistening tip rests on his chin.

_My dick,_ Armitage thinks. _It’s mine now, I have it—my own big cock, yours, ours—_

“It felt too nice,” Kylo purrs, rubs his face over the shaft, _nuzzles_ it with that glorious nose of his. “You had to get a second sample, I’d had—too much fun with the casting kit.”

“I could always make you a fleshlight,” Armitage reminds him. Kylo makes a considering sound, licks at the shaft, experimental, then laps at it again, savours the texture. His eyelashes cast a shadow over his scarred face. He looks like a painting in the mood light’s mellow glow, with the backdrop of turquoise pillows.

“I wanted this,” he says. “I wanted to know how it feels for you—I wanted to share—”

“Do you still—”

“Yes,” Kylo interrupts, grips his ass harder, possessive. “Fuck yes. Put it in me, I want to feel—”

“Will you behave?” Armitage asks around a lump in his throat. “It won’t be easy to take, let me tell you, it’s paramount you follow directions—”

“Anything,” Kylo says, sinks back into the lush pillows, gives Armitage’s ass a parting stroke. “I’m at your command, Supreme Leader.”

His warmth is instantly missed—but Armitage thinks he can feel it, radiating off him feverishly, and his scent lingers, the aftershave: dark, spicy, masculine, mingled with light sweat. To have him—to have another man in bed with him—it never ceases to be a wonder, secret desires answered.

“Arms above your head,” Armitage says, hoarse.

Kylo obeys easily, lifts his hands with a grace that contrasts the wild expression on his face. He’s a beast to be tamed, no longer his darling boy, muscles shifting under soft skin. Armitage knows just how to please and pacify him, how to make him howl and scream.

He re-positions himself so he’s back at his place of honour, kneeling between Kylo’s open thighs and surveying what’s his to claim. His domain: the entrance to it. He dips a finger inside Kylo, feels him out. That welcoming heat again; the tightness of him, a familiar rarity he should explore more often. He hums as Kylo gasps, clenches around him in little pulses.

“I fucked you wide open, haven’t I,” Armitage muses, scissors his fingers as he dips inside to the last knuckle. “Still wet with my spend.”

“We will need more lube,” Kylo says, strained.

“That’s a very good observation. We will need more lube _indeed_ , because I’m feeding you all of this.” Armitage fondles the dildo almost absent-mindedly as he checks in with Kylo’s prostate. Kylo grunts, canting his hips up. His cock is rock-hard, matching the size of the dildo. “ You’ll feel your own cock rub against your sweet spot constantly, hitting it head-on with each push—”

“Shit.”

“That’s the Kylo Ren experience, darling. That’s what it’s like getting fucked by your dick.”

“I have so much respect for you right now,” Kylo mumbles as Armitage activates the hollow dildo’s vibration. Kylo won’t feel it: it’s for his own pleasure only. He deserves it, for wielding this monstrosity. The beads pulse and throb around his cock, which twitches in answer as Armitage looks down at Kylo’s wet hole, ready to be stuffed full again. 

“I love playing with your arse,” Armitage says. He gets the discarded bottle of lube and spreads a generous amount over his fingers, rubs them together to activate the heat particles. “I must confess the added dimension of a, well, _teaching moment_ is—satisfactory.”

“You’ll teach me how to take it?” Kylo asks, turning to burrow his heated face into his bicep. Armitage gives him a moment, caresses his thigh with his left hand. Kylo’s cock is getting an angry red, oversensitive, begging to be stroked—but Armitage won’t touch it, for both of their benefit.

“You’ll come from this cock alone,” he promises, teases the puffy rim with a lubed finger. The pucker gives easily, and he pushes in, relishes the open heat. “I’m sure you’ll take it so well, dearest. Proper little cockslut like you.”

“Fuck,” Kylo whispers. “Fuck, I want—I—”

Armitage adds another finger, curls them in encouragement. “What do you want?”

“Go back in time,” Kylo says as Armitage smears the golden lube around, paints him with it until even his thighs are glistening. “I want to go back my past self, to the—padawan, or the recruit—I—want to show them this, show them in a vision—”

“You would shock the poor boys with this? Sex toys, discipline, all that sod?”

“You,” Kylo says. “They’d want you.”

Armitage’s breath hitches; his cock pulses inside the throbbing gel beads. _I won’t last long_ , he realises. _I won’t_ — “Even the padawan?” he asks, fucking his fingers inside, up and forward, the pace languid, just how Kylo likes it.

“ _Especially_ the—he’d defect for you, do you understand that, my old self, he would—cross the stars for his prize—leave everything behind—seek you out—when you needed a companion the most, when you were—I’m sorry I wasn’t there, I’m sorry you had to be alone—”

“We’re here now, gorgeous. Can you feel me?”

Kylo nods, mouth slightly open, panting on Armitage’s fingers. Armitage loves him so much it’s tearing him apart. His ribs feel cramped for his heart, beating hard. He feels lightheaded as he makes Kylo open his long legs wider. His ravishing prince is laid out for him in all his glory, laid out on silk, where he belongs, among flower petals and the glint of gold smeared over his marble skin.

He lies there waiting for his special gift, and Armitage is ready to give it to him: dripping with gold, thick and long, a cock fit to be received by royalty. He rules alongside Kylo; they share everything, and now they share this.

“Feel me,” Armitage whispers as he pushes the tip in. It catches on the rim, making Kylo cry out in ecstasy. His hair is like spilled ink on flimsy, a beautiful calligraphy. Armitage seizes his hips, dives in deeper. “This is how you feel, this is the pleasure you give me every time you fuck me, every time—every single time—What is it like?”

“I—” Kylo gasps, his fingers curling into fists above his head. Armitage notices it, reaches out with his left, links their hands. Squeezes, gentle.

“What is it like?” he asks again.

“Exquisite,” Kylo says, voice a deep rumble.

“You are exquisite. Do you get it now, love, why I adore it so much? Why it was worth to wait for you—”

“It’s—so big.”

“Let’s not be humble, you’re gigantic. Do you know what it means—what it—it makes me think you may be right,” Armitage says, sinking in deeper, burying the dildo in Kylo and lowering down, so he’s lying atop him, chest to chest. He can feel his heartbeat, he can taste his sweet breath. “Maybe we were made for each other,” Armitage whispers, rolls his hips leisurely. “Maybe it couldn’t have been anybody else; maybe it wasn’t random, maybe there was a _design—_ and the same way I crafted the dildo to be a perfect fit, to be just what you need it to be—they made you, body and soul, they made a companion for me.”

“They made us for each other,” Kylo corrects, breathless.

“I’m older,” Armitage reminds him, gives him a quick peck. “They saw that I’d want a husband in future—”

“Look at you,” Kylo teases as he locks his legs behind his back, urges him in deeper “My dick is making you religious.”

“Receiving it is a religious experience,” Armitage deadpans, flat-faced; thrusts forward and bottoms out in a smooth motion. Whatever Kylo was going to say is interrupted by a soundless yell, the ripple of his chest. “You need faith to believe you’re going to survive this.”

“ _Holy_ shit.”

“Not have your guts rearranged.”

“How do you manage—”

“I’m very dedicated,” Armitage breathes, aspirating the _k,_ and sending more shivers down Kylo’s spine.

Kylo presses back into him, against that ghostly dildo splitting him open, rubbing against his prostate, overwhelming him. Armitage’s chest is against his, nipple piercings dragging against Kylo’s body, but it’s not enough. He wants to crawl inside his husband’s skin, wants to breathe his air and share his blood and be one with him, always, exactly like this. “Can I move my hands?” he asks. “Please, Armitage, let me—let me touch you.”

“Hmm,” Armitage says, considering. “But you look so _nice_ like this.” Armitage gets his hands underneath him, presses himself upwards just a little, back arching gloriously. He stills his hips, the massive dildo just— _sitting_ there, inside Kylo, holding him open, the slick glide of lube and his husband’s come making even the smallest shifts something that Kylo feels throughout his whole body. His cock aches, arousal curling tight in his gut and pulling his balls up to his body.

The piercings glint on Armitage’s chest, cute nipples permanently perky. Maybe he won’t wear a shirt the entire honeymoon, and Kylo will be able to suck on the metal, play with it, shift the jewelry with his tongue, tug at them until his husband gasps and comes all over himself.

“Imagine how nice I would _feel_ ,” Kylo rumbles. He shifts, fucks himself a little further onto the dildo that Armitage is gutting him with, pushing him further than Armitage has ever pushed before—but they both know that Kylo can take it, now.

It’s safe for them to do this.

“Mmm,” Armitage says, eyelids fluttering as Kylo grinds down against him.

(He wonders what the inside of the toy feels like, all gelatin beads and subtle vibration, wonders if Armitage is rock hard and aching inside the toy, or just teasing himself in the aftermath of his first orgasm—and then Kylo shifts a little further, bottoms out and uses his calves to tug Armitage in even closer to him, and Armitage’s breathing catches, and his head tips back, his mouth going slack for a moment.)

“You may,” Armitage says, after a long moment, his voice touch, “touch if you like.” He exhales, and then looks directly at Kylo, grinning. “I’m going to keep fucking you, though.”

“Please,” Kylo breathes, and he brings his hands down from above his head, brings one of them to Armitage’s hip, and cards the other through Armitage’s glorious hair. “Don’t ever stop fucking me.”

“Never,” Armitage says, bracing himself on Kylo’s pecs, and starting to fuck into him harder, sharp thrusts that jab against Kylo’s prostate and sending jolts of pleasure through Kylo’s body, bringing him closer and closer to his own orgasm. “I’m going to get you off on your own cock, and you’re going to thank me for it.”

“Yes,” Kylo breathes, tugging gently at Armitage’s hair and watches his eyelashes flutter. “Stars, you’re so gorgeous. I can’t believe you take my dick on a regular basis.”

Armitage preens, keeps fucking into Kylo, their bodies rhythmically colliding into each other as Kylo starts moving with him, tugging Armitage’s body toward him with the hand that’s splayed over Armitage’s hip.

“Your—dick—is—fan-tas-tic,” Armitage breathes, punctuating every syllable with a hip thrust. “Touch my chest, Kylo, please—you know what I want.”

Kylo sits partially upward, curls one arm around Armitage’s back, and tenses his other hand, uses his numb fingertips down the center of Armitage’s chest. Armitage gasps, leans in and mouths at Kylo’s neck. “Use your nails,” he breathes. “Once with your nails, and then the piercings.”

“Yes, kitten,” Kylo responds, and as Armitage gasps, Kylo does what he’s asked—claws gentle marks down Armitage’s chest, and then moves both hands to Armitage’s nipples, playing and pinching at the piercings before ducking his head and capturing one of them in his mouth, sucking hard.

“Ah,” Armitage gasps, “Cheating, I can’t fuck you as hard from this angle—” He thrusts as hard as he can, the dildo trapped awkwardly between them. “Kriff, that’s good—hands on the bed, Kylo, put your hands on the bed—”

Kylo slams his hands down on the bed, and Armitage plants his palm on Kylo’s sternum, presses him down to his back and then pulls away, tugging the dildo nearly completely out of Kylo before fucking into him nice and deep again. The head of the dildo presses against Kylo’s prostate before going right past it, getting so deep into Kylo that it feels like the air has been knocked right out of his lungs.

“Shit,” Armitage whimpers, head hanging between his shoulders, hips moving as he fucks into Kylo in short, quick strokes, keeping the dildo as deep as he can. “Touch me again, Kylo—let me feel you—”

Kylo’s breathing heavily as he reaches up with both hands, steadies himself by curling his fingers into Armitage’s hair. “I love you,” he breathes. “Armitage, you’re perfect—you’re fucking me so good—I can’t believe you take this cock—I can’t believe you want me the way I want you—I can’t—” His fingers tense, and he scratches at his husband’s scalp, tugging at the hair as Armitage keens in ecstasy, throwing his head back and bottoming out inside Kylo, and Kylo is close, so close that he’s aching with it, so close that a few more strokes will put him over, so close that—

“Fuck,” Armitage says breathlessly as his hips still completely, his face red, breathing hard. “Shit, Kylo—”

“You came,” Kylo says in wonder, his own orgasm slipping out of his grasp as he gazes at his husband.

Armitage blinks, bleary-eyed. He’s beautiful. “It’s just so _good_ ,” he says, sounding mystified and hazy. “You’re so good for me.”

Kylo’s cock throbs dully, and he groans, settles back down on the bed. Chuckles in spite of himself.

“What?” Armitage asks, voice dazed, still buried to the hilt inside Kylo. “Did I do something funny?”

“I was _so_ fucking close,” Kylo says, “and I missed it. We would have come at the same time on our honeymoon.” He shifts in bed, moans at the stretch of the dildo inside him, and reaches down to his still-hard cock to finish himself off—but he’s stopped by Armitage’s hand.

He looks up at his husband.

“Well,” Armitage says, grinning, his hair hanging loose around his face. “Don’t deny yourself an orgasm on my account—the dildo’s still hard, do you want to come on your own cock? I don’t mind—in fact, I’d prefer it.”

“Yes,” Kylo gasps out, his cock twitching as another shudder of pleasure goes through him, and a rush of adrenaline and ecstasy sweeping through him. “Fuck, yes, Armitage—Armitage, I still want that, I still—yes, please—I—yes, Armitage—I—”

“What do you need?”

“Permission to change position?”

“Permission granted,” Armitage pants, and gasps as Kylo leaps at him—topples him over swiftly. Armitage’s back hits the mattress, a soft landing that still knocks the air out of him. His head is hanging down the edge, long hair nearly brushing the sunlit floor. He starts laughing, surprised, astonished, as Kylo climbs over him, wild and eager, face flushed.

Kylo’s cock looks aching hard, and the tip smears lube and precome over his belly as he straddles Armitage’s hips. He’s soft inside the dildo, indulging in how much he’s enjoying the slickness of the gel beads and his own come—there’s something decadent in it, something that prompts him to stretch out coyly, the tip of his fingers brushing over the floor. Nails on wood: even this feels glorious, as the force of his orgasm lingers, the afterglow after a gamma-ray burst, and here he is, basking in ultraviolet.

He look at Kylo from under heavy lashes. “Take what you need,” he says. “Take what’s yours.”

Kylo all but whimpers, the sound entirely too precious. He  keeps their gazes locked as he grabs Armitage’s chest—makes him sigh—rises up, muscles tightening in his glorious thighs. He grips the dildo without looking, lines it up unselfconsciously—starts to sink down on it, slow, without any ceremony, as if it was the most natural thing: and it is, it is—bliss is a part of their life now: it’s a joyride, and every time Armitage thinks this is it, the drop is coming, inevitably, they continue to ascend.

“So good,” Armitage says. He fancies he can feel it, Kylo’s tight heat, even through the barrier: sensations hardly matter when the pleasure is shared. “That cock is all yours—literally—feels majestic, doesn’t it? You know how to take it—you don’t get greedy—you just let it in, blessing every inch.”

“Fuck,” Kylo whispers, scratches at Armitage’s chest, then his hand goes higher, caressing his chest, the collarbones, his neck. His thumb catches on Armitage's larynx, the pressure oh-so-sweet; Armitage arches into it, and Kylo cradles his nape, holding him up, looking into his face as he starts to ride him with small cants of his hips.

Armitage closes his eyes for a second, listens to the delicious sounds that get fucked out of Kylo, the low, animal noises, flesh on flesh, the squelch of lube—sex. He has this; he and his husband have—get to have—

“Touch yourself for me,” he asks, eyes fluttering open. Kylo must see something in his gaze: he swears, and fumbles to get his cock in his free hand, the left. Armitage curves his neck to get a better look at him, Kylo’s thumb digging into his throat, making his breath slow, laboured. The thrilling pain is worth the show: how Kylo’s cock swings as he’s riding the replica of it, the splendid ripple of his body, hair sticking to his face and lips gnawed raw.

“Gorgeous,” Kylo says. “Wish you saw yourself right now, wish you—”

“I take it I’m being handsome?”

Kylo’s grip tightens around his neck. “Bewitching,” he grits. His wide chest is heaving, his defined stomach moving with it: he’s one to talk, really, with his big hand on his big cock moving rapidly—

 “Are you getting close, darling?” Armitage asks, eyebrows arched.

Something vicious flashes in Kylo’s smile. “What, getting tired of me already?”

“Ah, I can keep it up all night,” Armitage says, bucks his hip up, sharp. The air is knocked out of Kylo’s lungs; his mouth opens to a soundless gasp, and he looks down at Armitage: _you did not do that_. “Oh yes,” Armitage purrs, “I could just—keep—fucking—you—”

Every word is punctuated with a vicious thrust. Kylo’s hand closes around his cock, around Armitage’s throat. “Kriff!”

“How could I resist,” Armitage says, voice hoarse; he feels it resonating under Kylo’s fingers, picking up like his pulse. “How could I, when you’re so pretty coming apart?”

“Tell me again—hah, that I’m—”

“You’re such a pretty boy, Kylo.”

“Fuck!” Kylo’s nose twitches as his face contronts in pleasure—a telltale sign. Armitage grinds his hips up one last time as Kylo drops down on the dildo, stroking his cock so _casually_ it amazes Armitage: as if he could always just do this, as there was never anything that could stop him from claiming his pleasure.

“Mark me when you come,” Armitage asks.

“Wedding ring wasn’t enough?” Kylo grunts; he smiles, but it’s faltering—his eyelids are drooping and there it is: Armitage bites his lips and lets him have the last word, lets him fall apart in grace. Kylo throws his head back, the first load spilling over his hand. He lets go: comes all over Armitage’s chest and stomach, his come hot and sticky and _bounteous_ after his denied orgasm. Armitage gets up to his elbows to get more of it, more and more, everything, reaches out to grab Kylo’s cock—wrings it for the last drop.

“I can’t believe you,” Kylo pants, presses a kiss to his forehead. The dildo slides out as he surges forward, making him wince, then grin, bedazedly. He looks well-fucked and very, _very_ pleased with himself.

All Armitage wants is to see him like this.

This is all he wants.

He grips Kylo’s ears and pulls him into a proper kiss, deep and lingering, tongue and teeth. It’s smothering, but he only pulls away when he gets light-headed. Kylo dips in for more, accepts when Armitage turns his cheek: mouths at his soft jaw, his slightly bruised neck.

“Gonna eat me up, pet?” Armitage asks, twists his ear.

“Eat you alive,” Kylo growls, licks at his chest—does it again—starts eating up his own come.

“Bloody hell,” Armitage gasps, makes a fist in Kylo’s hair, pulls him closer even though—it’s unbearable, insufferable, _too much_. His nipples are oversensitive, but Kylo keeps tonguing at the piercings, keeps sucking his come from them, and Armitage is going to pass out, this is the end. He’s come twice; his cock is still—in the wetness of—and fucking Kylo—his _nose_ , it keeps poking him, and he’s still straddling his hips, eclipsing him, and it’s just splendid, his big beast of a man, his man, his forever, they claimed each other in front of the Order, and now they—sealed the sacrament, this is—

official—

unbreakable—

unalienable—

Armitage Hux is thirty-two, and he has a husband.

*

Kylo sits back on Armitage’s hips, the slick dildo pressed up against his ass, and the taste of come lingering in his mouth. He swipes his tongue over his teeth, swallows. “You alright?”

Armitage tilts his head, face flushed and eyes slightly unfocused. “Should—should I not be?” He looks up at Kylo, questioning, his breath only just now starting to slow.

Kylo reaches forward, runs his thumb gently along the redness on Armitage’s neck again. “This feeling alright?”

Armitage’s eyes flutter shut. “Lovely,” he breathes, “thank you.” He presses his neck up against Kylo’s hand, and then gently touches Kylo’s wrist with his fingertips. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” he murmurs.

“Join me in the bath?” Kylo offers. He needs to wash his mouth out more than anything—but he doesn’t want to move further away from Armitage either.

“Mmm,” Armitage says, eyes lazily opening. “That does sound lovely.” He turns, looks about the hotel room, eyes scanning the space with his customary military precision—if a bit fuzzier than usual.

Kylo intends to watch his husband, but is almost immediately distracted by the view out the large windows. The sun has started to set, and the sky is darkening in response, casting navy shadows across the park below the hotel. There are stars just barely visible in the sky—but only a few, the rest swallowed by the light pollution of the city.

“What have they got to drink in here?” Armitage asks

Kylo extends his consciousness throughout the room, takes an inventory. “Whiskey on the side table, red wine next to it, bitterfruit liquor, tsiraki—oh, in the conservator, they have that one with the gold flakes in it.”

“Yes,” says Armitage, gesturing vaguely with his hand and lying back down on the bed, tugging a pillow under his head with one hand. His lips purse as he considers—and then reaches out for a blanket, tugs it around his body. “Bring that one to the fresher with us.”

“Are you hungry?” Kylo asks. He carefully dismounts from his husband, reaches forward to smooth back Armitage’s hair from where it’s stuck to his forehead. The tresses are soft and elegant, the light reflecting reds and golds back as Armitage shifts his head.

“Absolutely not,” Armitage declares. He reaches his hand absently down to his harness, and taps at the base of the dildo.

“Can I bring you anything?” Kylo asks. “Pillows? Blankets? Ice?”

“Look at all your energy,” Armitage teases. “I can’t even be bothered to get out of bed, you made me come so hard.”

“It was wonderful,” Kylo says, absolutely unable to stop smiling. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

“Mmm,” Armitage agrees, stretching and arching his back, dildo bobbing at his hips. “I’ll have it scheduled. It made rather an impression.”

Kylo smiles. “Did it?”

“Oh, it did,” Armitage confirms. He taps his forehead. “I’m saving it for later.”

“Later?”

“What?” Armitage smirks, wraps his hand around the base of the dildo and gestures lewdly with it. “You already want more, greedy boy?”

Kylo’s face heats up, and he runs his hand through his own hair. “I, uh.” Licks his teeth. “Need to rinse my mouth out,” he admits finally.

Armitage snorts indelicately.

Kylo grins at him, gets off the bed and stretches. His thighs burn pleasantly from the exertion of riding his own cock—the cock that Armitage is still wearing, standing proudly up from his hips, glistening with lube, an absolute work of art that his husband made, just to give Kylo an experience that he wouldn’t otherwise have had. It’s a level of care and understanding that Kylo hadn’t even dared to hope for—and now he has it, in the form of his devastatingly gorgeous husband.

His entire body feels warm and sated as he stretches again, arms up over his head, twisting to the side as he lets his body relax. Kylo waves the refresher door open, sets the bottle of champagne floating into the fresher, and then, as an afterthought, floats ice out of the conservator into a bucket, sends it in after the champagne so they can keep everything chilled while they bathe.

He glances back at his husband one more time, and then closes his eyes, opens them in the refresher. The grey stone is cool under his feet, and he adjusts the in-room climate control with a gesture to warm the slightly gritty tile so Armitage won’t need to step onto a cold floor.

“I’ll never get used to watching that,” Armitage calls from the bedroom. “Just— _poof_ —and you’re gone.”

“The learning process was very awkward,” Kylo admits. He waves both their shaving kits open, plucks a bottle of mouthwash from his own and rinses his mouth out. He spits into the sink, and runs his tongue along his teeth. Tastes Arkesian mint. “Gave myself the nastiest headaches trying to work it out.” He rinses one more time, then tucks the mouthwash away, noticing the glint of Armitage’s cigarra case. He plucks it from the bag, carefully opens it, and taps out two cigarras. He lights the pink one, takes a draw. “Eyes open, Armitage,” he says, and then teleports the lit cigarette to Armitage’s right, leaves it hovering in the air.

“They are!” Armitage protests, right before he realizes. “Oh, thank you, love. That’s just what I needed.”

Kylo lights a cigarette for himself—this one pale purple—and inhales deeply as he opens the gold tap on the deep jacuzzi set into the floor, feeling the smoke curl into his lungs and relax his whole body. He crouches and holds his wrist under the water, adjusts the temperature until it’s steaming. “I’m going to shower first,” he says. “Do you want bubbles in the jacuzzi?”

He feels Armitage’s agreement through the Force before he hears Armitage’s murmured _yes, please_ —a hum of happiness, the softness of the sheets underneath him, the comforting press of the harness against his hips. Kylo steps into the shower, maintaining the Force connection with his husband, half of his awareness here, adjusting the water in the shower and enveloping himself with steam, and half of his awareness with Armitage in the blanket nest he’s created on the bed as he runs his fingertips down his own body, evaluating the pleasant ache of their love-making. Kylo exhales a plume of smoke, tipping his head away from the water to keep the cigarra dry. He reaches for an organic sponge, starts scrubbing lube and body fluids from his skin.

(He feels the echo of the hoverbed shifting, slightly, as Armitage peels himself up from the sheets in the next room, and tugs his awareness back to himself just so he can watch through the clear glass as Armitage pads into the fresher on bare feet, shivering visibly with delight as he steps onto the warm tile.)

“Very fancy,” Armitage muses, leaning back against the bathroom counter. He inhales languidly from his cigarette, watching Kylo through the glass door of the shower for a few moments before palming the base of his dildo.

“It’s that comfortable, huh?” Kylo asks.

Armitage exhales a series of smoke rings. “I made it for long-term wear.”

“They have a toy sterilizer in the corner, I think.”

Armitage shrugs, puts his cigarette back between his lips, and reaches around himself to the back of the harness. “I’m good.”

“Let it soak, at least?” Kylo uses the Force to tip one of the containers of bubbles into the jacuzzi, lets the water run and continues washing himself.

Armitage looks over at him, narrowing his eyes a moment before his face softens. “Ah, sweetheart,” he says, unhooking the harness and easing himself out of it. He twists his wrist, unmounts the dildo from the base of the harness, and crouches down in order to empty the gel beads into the trash compactor before setting the dildo into the sink as well. “Of course I’ll come bathe with you, let me just rinse off.”

Kylo grimaces. “I’m fine, I just—”

“We hardly cuddled after that marathon fuck,” Armitage points out bluntly. He runs his hand back through his gorgeous hair, and then frowns as his fingers get stuck in a knot. “I might like you to wash my hair a little later?”

“Of course,” Kylo says. He plucks his cigarra from his lips and leaves it hovering in the air as he ducks underneath the showerhead, rinses the soap from his thighs.

“Go on then,” Armitage says, reaching for a cloth and wetting it before quickly cleaning off his genitals.

Kylo turns off the shower, runs his hands down his body to skim off most of the water before he steps out of the shower. “...do you like what you see?”

Armitage watches him walk across the room, a small smile dancing around the edges of his mouth. “Your complete lack of modesty is charming, as always. And you look _very_ good naked.”

“I like the way you look at me,” Kylo says.

Armitage gestures to the water. “After you,” he says.

Kylo crouches—and then pulls up, a little, as his balls briefly touch the gray marble of the jacuzzi. Dips his big toe into the water—and then shudders in pleasure and lowers himself entirely into the bath, sinking in up to his chest and settling into one of the seats inset into the edge. He inhales another lungful of smoke, and then exhales it slowly to the ceiling as he tips his head back, relaxes completely. “This is fantastic,” he says. “Come sit next to me.”

Armitage makes a non-committal noise, and then groans in pleasure as the water splashes and he joins Kylo in the water. “Stars,” he murmurs, foregoing the other inset seat in favour of crawling right into Kylo’s lap. “This is scalding, I love it.”

“I can—”

“I love it,” Armitage repeats, bending close and nipping at Kylo’s ear. “I love you.” He runs his hands down Kylo’s ribs, interlaces his fingers at the back of Kylo’s spine.

Kylo splays his hands over Armitage’s hips, tugs him in close, licking at Armitage’s neck, and settling his husband up against him. He breathes slowly, carefully, synchronizing his breath with his husband’s, letting his heart settle. Armitage is moving his fingers gently at the base of Kylo’s spine, murmuring calming syllables into his ear, rubbing the side of his face gently against Kylo’s, and this is—this is exactly what Kylo needs, the casual intimacy and the way they share their breath, the way Armitage’s body relaxes against his own, encouraging Kylo’s muscles to let go too. He can feel the softness of Armitage’s cock pressed up against his stomach, the way Armitage’s balls rub gently against Kylo’s shaft as Armitage shifts. There are no barriers between them, and he feels Armitage’s question through the Force before Armitage even opens his lips to answer it.

“Pour me a drink?” Armitage breathes.

“Yes,” Kylo says in response. He lifts his hand from the jacuzzi, bubbles clinging to his palm, and gestures to summon two glasses over. The cork pops loudly as it comes free from the bottle, and Armitage giggles as Kylo uses the Force to stop the cork in its tracks, lets it fall to the floor of the refresher.

Kylo carefully pours two glasses, uses the Force to keep the bubbles down so that the glasses don’t overflow.

“Mmm,” Armitage says, taking a last drag off his cigarette, and then setting it down onto the tile. He picks one of the hovering glasses, and examines the gold flakes gently shimmering amongst the bubbles within. “Thank you, Kylo.”

Kylo sets his own cigarette aside as well, exhales before leaning in to give his husband a chaste kiss, and then settling back against the back of the jacuzzi, Armitage in his lap facing him. He grasps the second glass, and then taps the rim of it gently against Armitage’s. “To the rest of our lives,” he breathes.

“And the future of the galaxy, under our rule,” Armitage replies. “How are you feeling about everything?”

“Good,” Kylo says honestly. He takes a small sip of the champagne, lets the bubbles fizz in his mouth a moment before swallowing. Then he reaches under the water, wraps his free hand around Armitage’s hip, rubbing his thumb gently on Armitage’ stomach. “Was it...everything you wanted it to be?”

“It was,” Armitage says. “Thank you for that.” There are gold flecks from the champagne on his lips, and they catch the light whenever he opens his mouth to speak.

“You’re welcome,” Kylo says, shifting his feet and tilting his knees to slide Armitage down closer to him.

Armitage makes a high-pitched sound of surprise, and then squeezes his thighs tightly on Kylo’s. “Supreme Leader Ren,” he breathes. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Supreme Leader Hux,” Kylo teases. “Are you open to being seduced?”

“You know I always have been,” Armitage says primly, before ducking his head and nipping sharply at Kylo’s ear.

Kylo gasps, shifts in the jacuzzi as his cock starts to take interest in the proceedings. “I always wanted you,” he confides. “Right from the beginning.”

Armitage grinds down on Kylo’s cock, swallows back another mouthful of champagne and sets the glass aside before wrapping his arms around Kylo and kissing him soundly on the lips.

The kiss tastes like victory, tart bubbles and mint and his husband’s love.

“You have me now,” Armitage says, voice soft, lips moving against Kylo’s own. “I’m afraid you’ll never be alone again.”

“Thank you,” Kylo says, voice throaty and uneven, and if Armitage notices that he’s blinking back tears, he at least has the kindness not to say anything about it.

 

**Two Years Later**

It’s raining on Arkanis. The season of monsoons is over; it’s an autumn drizzle, crackling softly, picking up the pace as the wind whistles and swirls, makes the deep green sea below the cliffs roar and heave. Armitage tries to look dignified as he climbs the steep stairs to his home, his black-gold cape flaring out like giant wings. Colourful leaves are caught in the air: they fly and dance like a flock of butterflies breezing in the misty garden. Armitage breaks into a jog for the veranda, following their path.

He rounds the grand thermal pool, gives a once-over to his neat flowerbeds and Kylo’s vegetables: all’s in order. Their house awaits, patient, welcoming, the clean, geometric lines of the rectilinear design endlessly comforting. The transparisteel walls are glowing like a lodestar. Kylo always leaves the lights on for him when he’s working late. Armitage takes a moment to search for his husband’s silhouette, but the privacy settings are on: all the windows show is a mellow orange glow.

He sighs with relief once the veranda’s roof is over his head. He shakes raindrops out of his hair like a wet rat, mutters a mild curse under his breath, and pulls his locks back into a loose bun. Squints. Sniffs. Smiles. He walks past the tasteful set of durasteel garden chairs and a sturdy stone-and-chrome table, a good purchase they made a month ago. This is his life now: he does things he never expected to do, which includes the semi-regular purchase of furniture, excitement over a new set of pillowcases, buying _plants_ , gardening, for fuck’s sake, and breathing air that has a _scent_ : dirt, grass, moss, the salt of the sea below. The hypergiant he’s orbited today with his science team is just a faint spot on the horizon, _far away_ and _long ago_.  

His sense of time is messed up, the limbo between galactic standard and Northern Arkanisian giving him permanent jet-lag, but he wouldn’t exchange the life he leads for anything in the galaxy. He always thought he’d have to make serious sacrifices, choose between the safety of a home or the crucial work that can only be done in space, yet he has this: has both. The security system makes a familiar sound as it scans his retina, as comforting as the noise of the blasterpoof glass doors sliding open for him. He’s been _lightyears_ away, exploring wild space, harvesting quintessence, working to make the Intergalactical Union of First Order Worlds prosper, and he can just come home—kick off his boots—step into a pair of slippers, and call, “I’m home!”

And then: the rush of sounds, Nebulosa’s deep bark and Millicent’s gentle trill as they trot through the luminous foyer to greet him. He can’t help a fleeting grin, even though it happens every day, even though he should be used to Millicent circling his ankles and Kylo’s blasted hound jumping to lick him. He hopes he never will be; he wants to appreciate it like it is something precious and rare, although the pile of pets makes it incredibly difficult to shed his wet uniform.

“Someone’s eager to get naked,” Kylo says as Armitage struggles with his belt. Armitage glances at him, and can’t look away: Kylo Ren in the door of their living room, in gym clothes, at ease, comfortable. He looks like an apparition, a miracle.

“Shut up,” is all what Armitage manages, staggering forward with his jodhpurs pooling around his knees, pathetic, unseemly, but he has nobody to impress. Kylo won’t think less of him. He’s in the public gaze, always, but he can hide here. He can teeter towards his husband, pursued by over-excited pets, reach up: Kylo will take hold of the hem of his tunic, tug it off him, even though he doesn’t need help, not really.

“If I shut up, how will I tell you that you look cute?” Kylo murmurs. Armitage only makes an inquisitive noise in answer, puts his chin to Kylo’s shoulder when he reaches for his undone trousers. “You’re soaking wet. Gonna run you a hot bath, yeah?”

“No more water,” Armitage mumbles. He sounds whiny, but Kylo chuckles at it. He finds the most annoying habits adorable. He kneels down to assist Armitage stepping out of his wet clothes, which gives Armitage the opportunity to look him over once again, make note of the comm tucked in his pocket (he’s been working nonstop this week, call after call, meeting after meeting—he has a knack for diplomacy; for manipulation; promises dripping like honey). It doesn’t take much for his gaze to go astray, find the thick line of Kylo’s cock, tucked in the leg of his sweatpants: no underwear—he rarely wears any, at home.

“What am I to do with you?” Kylo says, voice low, peering up at him from the floor.

“Fetch me my dressing gown, chop-chop,” Armitage announces with a kingly air. It makes Kylo snicker, press a quick kiss to his knee before he gets up, taking Armitage’s uniform with him. Armitage goes into the living room naked, trailed by animals, his hair still dribbling water, and he feels like a wild man crawling back to his cave.

He feels free.

The room offers the comfort of sensible geometry, dark hues, stone and steel, his trusty old blue couch, and of course: the fireplace, the quaintest fucking thing. He turns it on with a remote control, then collapses into the nest of throwpillows, lets his pets climb up with him to cuddle. He looks at the fire, listens to the rain and the sea.

He’s happy.

He stops for a moment to think, to let it sink in: _this is it. This is what it feels like_.

Kylo returns with his pleated dressing gown and a cup of tarine, which Armitage accepts with a grateful grunt.

“Do you have everything you need, sir?” Kylo asks. It’s an ironic jab, but Armitage mulls it over as Kylo kneels on the couch and helps him into the gown.

“We need more territory in the Core,” he mutters.

Kylo scoffs, good-humoured. “There will be time for that, there will be time for everything. The world is ours for the taking.” He envelops Armitage in his arms,  rocks him as Armitage curls up eagerly and takes a delicious sip from the tea. The taste of peach and mint lingers on his tongue, and something else, something unsaid.

“I’ve been considering a trip to Kamino,” he confesses.

Kylo smiles at him brilliantly, tips his head to nuzzle Armitage’s hair. “Of course,” he breathes.

“Let’s go, sometime,” Armitage says.

For now: he’s perfectly content in the arms of his husband, heart clenching as Kylo embraces him, holds him close. He’s home; he’s safe; he’s surrounded by loved ones. 

That’s enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Warnings:** villains being villains (highly questionable political maneuvers justified) | mention of SW-canon atomic bombs | power play via roleplay | canon-typical violence | breathplay 
> 
> **End Notes:** And...the story has been told.
> 
> Thank you to deadsy, for comments, enthusiasm and support.
> 
> Autumn - this has been great. Thank you so much--and let's do it again, sometime. <3, kt.
> 
> Ktula - I love you, and can't wait to Collab again. Stories are finished, but they never end. - Autumn
> 
> There is a moodboard for this chapter, available on [twitter](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1131973584887386113), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/671273), and the [vast barren hellsite](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/185110944336/reach-out-and-touch-faith-1010-the-fic-is).
> 
> There is no interview this week--but there will be one next week!
> 
> There’s also art!
> 
> \- [inspired by chapter seven, by Trashmuffle](https://twitter.com/Trashmuffle/status/1127611062344343552)  
> \- [for chapter seven, by Marzelo](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/180611088471/heyktula-marzarelo-thicc-boi-inspired-by)  
> \- [from chapter three, by Jeusus](https://jeusus.tumblr.com/tagged/reach%20out%20and%20touch%20faith)  
>   
>   
> forautumniam is on [twitter](https://twitter.com/forautumniam), [dreamwidth](https://forautumn.dreamwidth.org/), and [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/forautumn)
> 
> ktula is on [twitter](https://twitter.com/heyktula), [dreamwidth](https://ktula.dreamwidth.org/), and [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/ktula).


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